Elope the T Transmitter

The tomato scenes. Transmitting swarms of baby ghosts (like tiny snakes inlaid with jeweled nodes of time) back to the start, to the star, the grand apart — to the ground where we are buried to be born.

And there arise.

An ancient seeing starts to fly, crocheting candles into lies, twirling transflorescent skies — I scream, I fade — the scoundrel dies — and all’s forbade, and all’s goodbyes.

Tomato scenes whose ghosts are sighs.

Transmitting swarms they supervise.