Fortunately No One Resides Where The Magic Happens

Morning's
dagger-thoughts
descend from fog,
long since zeroed
out.

A slit
in the finger-skin
floods glove
with blood.

Green
slurp-snakes
lie in a poorly-lit
enclave.

Expecting uplift.

Chandeliers
twist their metal
telling a tale of an
immigrant's arrival
from Bhutan.

This petal-machine
runs on probability.

Depending
on a headline
to rescue
paradigm.