our afterlives

and we went to be a box.
now i'm not me.  here, it's the next as steam
to smoke. they're creepily fancy
of god, the gray first lover, who seems
like a candle, steals again love,
begins to question flowers.

as i just me wants to tell your heart
was just a subject.  what coming in the perhaps
of the scar in spring.
but whatever. we were riding
the sky, watched the bright barge of clouds,
trying to be contemptible.

the masks of my breaths twined
like a song for our day.
purple killflowers.  and i said, curled
from the green gulls like desperation,
we know some musket to be order.
we'd call its calculus
of a little second, yes,
a lock of love, and the trails
still pressed to the fact of the funeral.

instead, this afternoon of god,
dying coasted this news
like a story of disasters.
even the corrections were good.
let the dark rot in the color-cold gravel:
everyone's a graveyard of strange.

B.J. Best and torch-rnn