Enchanted Thing

Expressing karma through a mumbled blue note until the milk of your charm rots in its awe like—gotcha! Not a hint of remorse as your mind locks into... watch this. This time I'm a submarine, this time I'm a soft machine/track, the one about the mask getting whole again like a laugh into commercial/intermission, woven, vowing, well then,    this time I'm a cameo, this time Imma show up in folkforms, en vogue, in stereo, in territory songs, in pairs of concordant desire separated by fidelity but lent the recognition of panther of lash of backwards wish jotted on a napkin at the bar/into meek origami then peach marrow dripping between the words for lamp and malt and praise and all of it, rig veda, star people, don't wait up, but maybe someday I'll save you, the note laced into a droopy tulip that seemed alive with the power of omission, like the heart becoming tender to tempt a vastness toward it, like the heart when it does this again and again