Heaven Parcel

A simple touch, unfettered from the cold distortions of the mind— sharp from the constant swing, but blunt from the day-to-day usage of tightly zipped mouths. A simple touch, in its return, birthing creation— intuitive deliveries, a parcel from kingdom come. I open the gift, and to my surprise, it's fodder— green as Irish moss, dense as fruitcake. My bites are small, but my expansion scales out through the city.