by grimbeau

May got seventeen today, 

made glorious summer by this sausage pork,  

and in its air a’plenty 

rain revealed a summer born, 

the maid unaware craved its drains to roam, 

its culverts to clog―

a strange pain over the tantric temple, 

a sudden inability to spit, 

a teal sky, 

and a giant bird: 

omens look pretencious at dusk.