morose thing now,
this thing under umbrage
of a maddened machine;
who is reluctant to give way,
an ecliptic passing of
an even madder woman.
this thing now,
under the pretense of shadow,
this form,
falling out, whiplashed, broken,
whose name of music is soliloquy,
this amorphous figure
that gives so much cadence
to things
that hold onto long and monotonous
enunciations like a bad hangover from
a slackened night’s slug.
like the S on swooned
or still the S on the double-grinned,
parasol-intoned, punch-to-the-gut spoon;
or S in *seldom
saved, structured such selfishness
saluting sordid stories soldering
smashmouth Suns surrendering
smoothly-sailing stars, supposing defeats
similar to sanguinaries such sweetness
sings surreptitiously*.