The ship in the bottle
Is flush with the moon
Near the armadillo of aurorae
Light that speaks in crackles and snaps
It’s the language of all origin
The spark of all creation
Creation of the surf and shores
Where the upright piano
Has washed onto the beach
It’s a spinnet
to be spun
like turning caterpillar spit
into silk
Long fingers reach down
when the fog comes in
plays gymnopédies of nostalgia
and the darkest saddest
Dancing Queen
you’ll ever hear
WhatsHerName Writes 