In Queeniland,
there is no humans in
the city, but weeds
and worlds that they etch.
I keep an internal memo
in station metric hide
a few quasi-immigrants.
greenhouse weeps.
Perhaps there is no
greens in nature?
But in happy hours,
I dreamt of free riding
the Mobike to T.A.M.,
landing on the red moon,
in my astronaut helmet.
at twenty-five o'clock.
Just some pillow talk,
or minor linguist Icsulcer.
et ce te ra, et ce te ra . . .
Yours autonomously,
