a good thing is a Unicorn. but one that bleeds.
in the Harlem of our garden, a Cyclops plots
against our flock of sheep.
we are teetering on the brink of an awkward laughter
reverberating off of false Gods.
we are dithering the quince and the steam
from our dull kitchens, casting pots,
against the harangue  of bleached dreams -
and the nethers of our sworn clot

virtuous notions
and dim
thought.