you only commit to illusions like me
pulling fists from my pockets
but they’re bees
in your stomach
your mouth is full with the honey of my language
yes, it’s Crimson and Clover
dripping over and over
you ran up the alp to whip your heart in shape
but worked too hard
it’s over zealous
you caught a bird in your hands
who flew you south for the winter
now your blood’s with the crows
and you’ll never learn my syntax