The one we wrote line-by-line-ish

Nadia and I:


And the froth melted into an ebullient bullion awash on August's curled golden skin

Buttercup-fed butter, the pollen-flavor of burning which bees refuse to share

In their waxen lairs, torturing the flickering fire out of the firefly they conspire

To condition into submission with slow belly-strokes.

Thoracic ducts releasing a seizure of brown rivulets that are like ant's heads without the antlers.
Autumn's dead dancers stumble elsewhere, nearby. Chemical receptors sing out their premonitions:

The leaves will shake
The leaves will shake

August's skin, shaggy, shred like a hive, throws light off in ambery body bags