Into the Moss

Apple core cast off, unsettled by some textures (travelling naked).

You think rhythmically while I crack open the eggs. The whiff of leather.

On the holy ranch, no one gives a fig for you. Arcade consoles guff.

Dancing to expire, expletives force a new pace. I'm going to sleep.

Night in the graveyard. Digging the blue shorts. The hem is rising.

Mischievous season, sun surrenders its powers, losing the pantry.

Where prized emotions are conveyed as swift products; I'll journey with them.

Cobweb unyielding. Too cold above the hard ground, Cypsela spasms.

So moon reflects day; the horizon calls the sun. Clouds, an afterthought.

Against all the odds, I didn't use any bits without a rudder.