Diaphane, Adiaphane

One apartment, with that golden shrill pausing.

One deep reddening breath, Eros kind (blush… past tense)

A woman and her half boiled cedar chair.

A diaphane could be little spasms of shallow blissful glass, twisting dubiously under quoted eyes

A woman and her half boiled cedar chair.

A letter.

Boxes of letters.

Or small miniscule windows into the heart, brimming from within, a temperate need to feel more alive… porous

Or an orange eye weaning(under a gentle snow of dark woven blue, knowing that the Prussian has a dark tongue rousing elk,

everywhere), 

for they have held skies, before our coming, melting orange shrugs, having felt minced,

your lungs into a crush of honeycomb 

the ironic consonants, claustrophobic numbers, months, years, birthdays,

turning your sighs into chars of opaque quenching for (whoever aimlessly and pretentiously tries to consummate your dismembered self)

And taste

An apriori of lemon-dwelt wood, whilst dreaming hastily and in trance about 

machines dressed in chloroform or even worse,

Human silk.