so it’s on, with the shallow breathing
in these pools
that curdle lightning
as it falls; emblazoned -
from an angry squall,
smack dab in the middle of our
War on Things.

so it’s on with the curse that Meaning
forgot,  in a tantrum
of unbeleaguered
Serenity,

a quiet sort of madcap in
a straw bonnet.
because Life is the Verb
that you’ve frozen by
Hand.

till it was priceless.