In a tapestried matchbox I keep an old story About two colliding hummingbirds. The feathers left behind Say nothing tangible about the vanity Predominant In the always-and-everywhere dimension. Throb after thrill And throe after throb. My sentiment- intoxicated bloodstream Imagines itself significant To obfuscate the cynicism. Anatomical Can you discern The avid caterpillar in the orange heart Of the moon? Its bile can scald arterial paths between poles Leaving the juice to transpire While the flesh’s still fresh And the sickness transpiercing In its discordance. I’m afraid The wolves under my tongue will wail Stable in their indelicacy To devour themselves. Somewhere else, in lost saddlebags, Time, broody, Is pining for stoicism. Please, from your tower of ossicles, Show me the right orbit For which to define The line of apsides. Heady Every night I visit different places, Observe behavioral oddity, Sleep in different crania, Obsess foreigners Who eat grapes But don’t share any with me. Some of them laugh uncontrollably Neglecting the risk of choking. The new day insists on dexterity To remove fermented beans From the husky throats And feed the vultures. The sense of direction detects that Once syruped, The air’s already acquired a ropy aftertaste. Bio: Vyarka Kozareva lives in Bulgaria. Her work has appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Ariel Chart, Poetry Pacific, Basset Hound Press, Bosphorus Review of Books, Mad Swirl, Ann Arbor Review, and is forthcoming in Abstract: Contemporary Expressions, Juste Milieu Lit, Sampsonia Way Magazine, and Triggerfish.