The swing gets wet, and the sky is red, on her thigh's end.
Of a masked man, his kneecap is a badly‐fitting, at the matinee in spring.
Drawn by Rieko Saibara, a nihilistic eye, falling here.
On gripping a wash‐line pole, I know you are here, at midnight. Or, on gripping a wash‐line pole, I'll be crazy with you, at midnight.
Biting softly, a drop on your navel, to be filled with my sweat.