if one would iridesce greed one
two three patterns emerge
one skin of ochre
two blood like blood
three one can do nothing to
embrace one’s poetess
hang a snare one two three
from the nose of a fox one two three
what awaits one there one
spiked leather collar two
three a black vinyl dress
one’s beard dewless skin
covered in iridian mess
after Vijay Seshadri
and numbers
no matter how abstract
laced together
in a ceramic bowl
farmost
impossible
an implication of angels
argue about 3 green apples
in an old lady’s outstretched hands
the numb plain makes no sense
lust
in a cracked ceramic bowl
clearly the old lady and the victim
language sunlesions real flesh
strugges to become impossible
numbers punish its argument
3 brown dates drown in scree
neon tulips green apples