1
It’s guaranteed better in pastures of fire,
The drink made of honey, and bland.

2
But the reason for entry remained elusive.
Perpetually we looked for a shepherd’s crook.

3
It was only then that the refugees became
Bewitched by the economy, which had overgrown
Its flickering bulbs, winter at its damnedest.

4
Perhaps you were perceived as a cul-de-sac,
A worn mountain of bungalows and hideaways.

5
The matter was brought about by degenerates.

6
They were always uncertain, a lunar rhythm.

7
She wheeled aimlessly to the shore, granting
Not a single interview before she left, pleased
With her escape. Misery, then, was a garden.