We smiled at each other like strangers 

as florists fold art forms that are older 

than the weaving of monosyllabic words

to make these meetings at the flower press 

last longer than a orchids stretch to water.


As those skeletons romances we play out with bones

Along circus torso caged to signal Victorian  

gondolas to the knotted landings

as I think this deity of the dead wants to drag 

Me to the shallows wrapped in moth eaten shawl.

To perish with the thought that to provoke the world 

from the triangular Depths of radio silence 

That is buried in Ocean layers.