Half a pill is greener than a forest field. 
Half a pill is the siren song of an ambulance.
In the season of rotten apples across the garden 
& gravediggers who've become so afraid 
to touch their lover's flesh under the night's 
moonless outstare: a certain kind of lacking 
finger-deep inside the wet ashes of my cosmic soul.
Body, unhinged, an exiled monarch winged into 
the blinding torch of wonder, a heart's arrhythmic 
nibble of grace before the executioner's last sermon: 
We are not the lucky ones: even our simplest 
desires are somewhat sufferable. In the beginning 
of chaos: a brush-footed butterfly nests on 
the razor lip of an axe—palsying wings, contagious. 
Bulk of its fear, my eternal dooming: what tongues 
us open after the fire's extinguished.