I precariously prepare the play poetry,
patiently pondering the plane paper.
Part by part I paint the possibilities;
to pertain this performance perfectly
I pick P.
It is poison; I proceed,
problematic,
-even-,
precise predicates
I place, it's a paradox. Perdition.
To picture my pain the persona must
posture my part: I progress without
precipitating my predicament,
pursuing the proximity of an end,
puzzling, pushing, and punching without progress.
Oh please let my precedent come to pass,
prefacing the end.
The plague is over.