oh for ,
spiders stuck 'part shadows into couch,

so condemned us gods overhead,
Aeschyluses of vindictive dusk, for




watching us as though gods, not daring to move.
Nor obscure our patron'd sun.
oh-brush of the arm, they cover from the storm, a
vengeance again parted from the heavens.
our reclined, untitled rivalries we expel,
as tufts of wind broke in behind;

was it a Polaroid we are dodging nervously.
what amber tinges rest into the cushion
as the dust brought the sun to the air