It’s the midsty morning,
all grammar’s run amuck
and the rapture won’t take me.
They’re lining up,
the letters and errant punctuation.
Spray-tagged against walls
they’ll torment the souls
who’ll stay here in god’s mean timing.
I keep putting apostrophe’s
where they don’t belong.
It’s an oblonging of words
and it will always be
my denial.
What’s possessed me?
I could pose esses,
caressing them down to tildes,
til disappointed and unsexed
by a symbolic life on its side,
they'd rise back up to text,
not angry but sure
their standing’s worth fighting for.
That’s nothing but a bad dream.
Line theft has left
this man fantastical
and it’s broken my container
of finger-twitching quotations.