In my inconstant Inner Haiti
I scoop a broom from the pillage-
of my dust, to sweep
all apathy Eastwise-
out of an Abundance of Caution.
I plunder my Enigma
to confuse less -
the ramparts of my clarity.
To festoon dark quadrants-
with oddments of discontinued
parades.
Always In my loop, my Spine-
a darling knot
cloistered in the open
Question.

Quivering in Dismay
like a hapless
Bruise.

Binding a Cause
to Its Rumor
with -

Absurd.