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.