long before strip malls had dreams and overdue books were made of flint and carousels-
there was an ancient joy that ached in the real world like an ingrown toenail-
snarling grief into aspic and anomalous carnivals.
coping with the doom of a thing
in its infancy…. while harboring a cool escape
to a quadrant of sumptuous
stuttering,

like clouds on a rope.