the swift hoops are drawn through the days
the trampled shams of the dawn
some droll contours in your hair
speak down to the waterfalls
down to dad, draining his oil on clover
hold tight now, commander. your bread is made
for not just you, but all of you.
and your wife
through clenched teeth knows her molecules.
steady goes the rough hands to the sticky keys
and deadly. through spilled drano
i go anyway, forward. or i would
if i were not so tied to the gaming world.
and that's why the days are quartered.
the sloppy ponds where you fooled us to fish
that held no fish.
be not so hexadecimally colored ye fighters!
the dances are not so seismic anymore
who needs slow dancing
there is this protocol that
you have and it reminds
me too much of dead maybelline.