I can do it, hold the wasp
in my palm― without grains
and short of fructose.

Layer by layer eggs
will leak― wetting
the vibrating stigma.

Neat abuses, will suck
the milk of nodding thistle.
No marrow comes out to save the elixir.

The hoofers, without
stirrups were running blindly
after the fallen apple.

The sage sways sadly
in the passive winds. It’s aroma
enters the stream of sex.