oils

and this sweat, like a bullfrog splayed, and muddy snowflakes, the guts of the day, and fingertips.

but then a small wind, a shivering light bulb, an ocean lapping against your tongue.

and you are not entirely okay, because you were just great, and now your thoughts click like a telephone, the heavy kind, a nickle pressed to your forehead,  the taste chiming in your ear, metallicky rainstorm.

it is passing.