Dry moon, dry-ice moon on the necklace of stars. History dreams of citizens equal to its electrical work, equal to its imagination and night. Her shattered words burn in clusters near hands and faces that terrify. When the breathing darkens, the lover’s touch breaks off in my hand, and red lips map the composition of crystals and elements. An eighth rest and a laugh, an eighth rest and a laugh. Energetic harvest- rhapsodies descend from a grand heaven flame-driven to churchyards beneath lamplight. This will be the electrodynamics of objects in motion, queen of hundred-year-old wines.