Misattribution 2: Nostalgia is a HoneyTrap

Dearest everyman-orpheus: your still severed head rests on my pillow. Returning was the revolver door you spun until blackout, a closed weather shift in the tightness of our room dissolving: time lapse as the digitally enhanced ceiling rains down onto our bed—the flowers now flowering over skin, dust-stuffed feeling spilling through sky. The ozone scent floated for hours. You were inattentively singing, she is gone—stuck in a turn style, suctioned in the thickness of old-fire air—but I never believed in a longing-back. The preceding seasons are a sickness. Our may-be future and its satelliting moons are the only sparkling-lulls that pull me entirely in to your sugarcomb dark,  

   Contributor’s notes

   Instructions for Dematerializing
   Misattribution 2: Nostalgia is a HoneyTrap
   Still Life with Levitating House/Wife

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