the unnatural
drunk of a random breeze
clings to the broken chimes in busted windows
and sings no yes among the grunge swollen -
dandelions, however the candor yodels
or the pools swoon bleakly
beneath our mutual
demise.

penalty has no flowers in the lips of the moon
like a matador. Only the bull grievance of a bout of ravens
and a blood red cape of herrings.
a juke and box and a square to circle...
and nothing so much as a peep
from a fog.