And for each petal-blast, it felt like (ooh, cringe)
volcanos in a Japanese painting of (spring),
contrived, you told me:
In the year of our lord 2020, there are thirty-seven hate groups in New York.
But in the morning,
during the fires of California,
Come, let’s go. Wake up!
I just smoked CDB in the snow for ten minutes:
Rly helped lol.
And so, for you, Brahms — and you, Frahm —
when you Says ‘All is Melody,’ I wept,
so you said:
Shimmer down little dove.
No Step on Wing —Because This Must Be.