Your sweet sizzle, invisible, easy to ignore, masking the oil horizon. It isn't enough to whisper in the dead yard now. That grief is dry like bundled herbs, neglected.
Volatile compounds in their slitherings punish and comfort in equal measure. I am comforted by punishment and punished by comfort. A twist of a molecular riddle and a satisfying resolution becomes a burnimg accusation.
My imperceptible groaning draws my muscles into new configurations, an early harbinger of the public torments to come. Behind me I feel the tickling voyeurism of the gallery.