We
watch the cockerel’s dance,
And
dream to learn its dusted step
Through
Sloth-screening,
Triamines
exude noxious
Freedoms
stirring
The
vitreous resolve
Of
canopies high,
Air
Fiery floods
Upon
flashbulb
Firmament.
Crooked
arrow scars engrain
Burnt
sienna brilliance
To
the pigmentation of
The
washroom serf
The
silver contrasts the skin
Always
following the tinny sounds—
The
only music ever sung to him
The
cigar still hangs its shadow-veins,
Finger
and thumbnails strain the check-boxed page,
Calmly
noting the indices newest casualty
How’s
and why’s are questions never asked,
Yet,
should the capon crown be out of place,
An
inquisition will surely find the reason why
In
halation’s after-lens,
The
breathing understand there & then
There’s
no escaping these rutted rails
For
us, even in mort, liberation ever fails
