In the wild fray of her hair

I hear electric crickets from another world

wings taking me over torrid landscapes

drawers thumping on the bureaus that were lost
rooms glued together by a desperate architecture

doors made in haste and windows wanting

beams that harbor woolen hearts

chairs of ice on a melting shore.

Hours were rewound with hooks of steel

to spatter the glass planets

her winding roads are what my circuits feel.