Knee deep in the brick stew.
Marmalade wasps with cast iron cashews.
born of a nut in a spoil of iron
gazing at the hard light
love locked or lovelorn… empty banquets
Calcutta my teeth,
and i have too few tomorrows
to arrive at your cul-de-sac
with a grape punch
full of open hands,

i startle the pigeons, yes -
but never the Fates.