The Milk Bank.
Reality strikes, struck, striking
like palms electrocuting
executions of cheek.
The days air buzz—denser than our world.
Threatening to asphyxiate, but never here.
Where dreams be,
come,
master,
pieces.
Pooled reflections of what we are, beyond
sweet milk of deception. At the ebbing banks of day
unveil,
and become.
