When Octavia had to asked for white caviar
The psychic was already to late
To predict the shoes that wouldn’t
Improve that first view.
whilst staying at eight hundred
Degrees north of a hot tub on the pier
When the reply came your dreams
have been hidden at ambiguous beach
Where you can watch
the spy ecking out a living
Burying silver screen .
Counting the reasons the goose
Peeled its feathers and stepped
In the tin that was Strung for the journey
Back from the Ebony island blues
To dot these emerald eyes.
