I Flirt with Silence in the Pillowy Ache of Ice Water

A howl, a strum, you and I and naps in lantana.

Silver headstones in mans decline.
In the gait of the dandelions ween, making fists with her toes in tire-tracks of mud,
the clumps oil drunk and balding blades of emerald's fray.

She took baby steps,
eclipsed in the midst of a marvelous dream as one more somnambulist against the world.

She simpered heavens as if god himself had a vested interest in her existence and she could care less about it.

Her heart pumped jet fuel through brand new veins,
her extremities bucked like a doe's full of sex skewed by streams of television

S-a-r-t-o-c-a-n-o-i-d

Had he heard the word before?
Had he read it somewhere?
Perhaps hiding beneath other juicier, more plausible words.

Familiar coal black letters gashed through jaundiced legal pad.

"Sartocanoid."

Had he lived with this word in his heart or in his pocket?
Had it branded him in a blink of the eye like a hot wet trail of congealed egg-yolk?