In a simple sweater, a jawline like a lyric, is the ambition of dusk.
Against the aquarium of stars.
A simple ghost, like a pair of bashful feet in the corner.
The high wires of power lines, the moon like a spool with no thread.
Words in a notebook, coil bound, from the drugstore, do angels tattoo humans on their arms?
A jawline like a stampede, an aquarium of ghosts.