when we were sitting on the balcony
listening to Pink Floyd’s Animals,
it was the time of seasonal miscegenation,
November murmurs, the stuffing of fall,
and I didn’t know a sheep means love,
or that like a domesticated dog,
you’re desperately afraid of being left alone
to dream until you forget yourself,
at the time, we just wanted to hunt in the Savanah
with our gnashing maws snarling our intentions,
so we snarled, we drained ourselves to the dregs,
and began to fight against the structure
of our bodies and the world,
until we absolved it all, vowing
that we would bypass the required conditions
and our nonconformity
would melt in the gaze’s rheum
that falls from the clear skies
in brilliance,
and we would collect it and bury it
like our beloved childhood trinkets,
and the garden would enclose the animals
while we would be cast out –
I feel how reality heals,
I feel how the dark autumn waters
have almost closed with ice
EN 
MK