like a wheel gets cold and colder while we were rolling wet regrets past fields of paddies flooded lightly pat feet through doorways' time regressed, Malevolence incarnate, a kaleidoscopic vortex of libidinous power coursing through twisted geometries, the wide-angle gaze unveiling domains beyond mortal ken, like a door gets old and older where reaches for each fallen fleur de Lune turns life to silk and tiny prints depress the flour floor, like a ghost is leaves that gather into the pond until the light is nothing but the dead and gone my fleur de lune is filled with night, Unspooling from a shattered manifold, billowing waves of phosphene chaos crash against our optic' shores, reaving imagist and peeping tom alike with synaesthetic coilings, A man keeps passing down the lane packing hay into his eyes by fuller fields with cheeks of rain my fair-skinned pond that filled with night