the radiator croaks
like bourbon and Barnaby Jones huffing ******
in a lead Zeppelin; and heat clinks  like a spider's tooth
on a moist towelette. and the stars hold a bounty of something deeper.
a dread helpless, in mean peace with a vital vital Truth
with no choice, as yet; but a marred County, of Big Thinker.
and you can hear the wrinkles on an Angel's ***, and prove
the useless rude. and politely
unseat the morning sun
through the levolor
minds

during eclipse.

during a near
miss
from the dark-side
of a rogue
moon.  

the hard way.