Words had themselves eaten into by
the plutonic looping inside any fruit
he'd been munching on till the day
he woke up at down and walked
333 miles to a bay, and maybe
a pond or two along the route
barefoot

That palatableness of timbre
of a voice in the ears
Like that of a fawning hawk
soaring up and do be dub
Drolling over his own gawk
Sincere, friendly, fierce, and predatory

I am a time traveler who wandered into a Southern Dark Arts
festival where graceful people strummed on guitars,
and cried in angelic voices—which felt like a lullaby
since 'twas all nothing but a latent space phantasy