da s | The Poetry Foundation

I was pre-Pandoran once, clear & amok, scarlet free where scarcely

orange or purple romed: all

font, Greek, drunk, then, then Tyred, vinegar aspect for breakfast. How I seam

now in video

footage of national folding where only arson lives lives. Its source is valid because Google

calls it 100% relevant and government, which is apt since it’s an historical event. I reseek and

pall this chunk’s vocation. Viatical my neighbor asks if I’d ride in the trunk, no kid: my

hatchback is mined in the parking lot for its sparkplugs beyond the bar. She masking

he then is captured by the faith-based; once she creams, he stops calling it

vocation. Down here, they have imported the clouds from Japan, and I hear them, sardine.

Keez me, gaghrl, yer old wahn. Geta-crushing Shoji of the air will remember cat-noise

and –fish for complements as the King of Terror will never have forced

the possible Fed you you you’re not—not. Postal will be yours and you, bulk predellal, tardy

urinals on vehicles, art naught but an empty he-port. Grey they err over joy, toupeeing space

as picture meant to do. I stream, hand mover, reek, occupy ice and call that night. Of all

indecipherably

you finally type to say you hosted Uncle Chen in your backyard exclusive. Wake,

it’s time to smell the smoke. Darling I

incensed. Once could have been your she-port; pretty noun

look ahead to repast and yr Gruyerer aspect. Hype alone remains inside the box.

Source: From Dame Quickly (Litmus Press, 2009)