peak poetry
comes so oft this final quarter of
two thousand twenty four,
and persists into the age of
two thousand twenty five

perhaps the urgency my yet signal
becoming another
fade~a~swaying?

bones sense the jig jog
getting closer to a
closing bow of
denouement,

nothing specific
but my seer,
my godmother fairy,
unsmiling ******,
yet brimming with
inside out insights
delivered
in my face
direct delivery
face slapping

from my
bathroom mirror
Mirror Mirror
On the Wall
Complaint Dept.

advises me with an
opening grimace

that the current is fastest beneath where
the biggest boulders congregate, and
surficial eddies mislead with an artistic
mild on the river top, what hides
beneath is more likely to drown
and swallowing you whole
when you’ve peaked
poetry