Tempus Fugit

Incandescence wrote:I'll sit prune-faced in a courtyard, the eastern tract,
thumbing the armrest of a bench, a shadow shepherding
dawn down a western wall, legs crossed, agitating airs
with studious kicks. The high budding tendrils will flex
and crown the center bower where once I cupped a fly
between coarse hands and stiff, the midday light stealing
through the branches, [s]through the folds[/s], mother humming
baroque entreaties to the armoire—how once I could feel
its tongue lap the sweat from off my palms, the dark whir
nudging a knuckle's backside, scraping ocelli, the hands
collapsing like an old goat's lung with fingers interlaced.

Rambling sentance much?

through the branches, [s]through the folds[/s], mother humming