He’s stumble-hungry,
& ****** to the sky
manifest destiny
in her naive eyes

Yet amongst the
ethanol mirrors
and heavy smoke,
this sharply curious
array of odd pieces
begs the question:

I am not vestigial, am I ?

Posing some lovely injury,
he bares his hands-
& in his silence,
he admittedly fails to ratify

*I am,  I am