asphyxia guiding convectors (just in the way we subconsciously hold our heads )
arching their conjectures like all sorts of aching intrusions
Enough is Enough when out-of-luck is something we've been shrinking our fingers around

clear opulence in the draining hush
spraining convictions
sticky with balancing on these tethered-down days.
feeling our rib cages rising to our eye sockets means
cascading certitude? it means
this all means

our glaring connivance is buried in the exploding skies.