Plastic 100 C

the Heat melts my tongue

as tears

drop

onto the soft night

mornings

our Suns graze their meridien

deliquescing our verbs into the

common fluidity

the Scarecrow hears our faint cries

making contact with the

base

of our fears

Blood,

painting the canvases of our skin

lips sloshed in ichor

innards oozing into mass

drifting into a Sealant

shielding our

(bare selves)