the conversation has its rules, it has
the semblance of rules, the distance
of semblance that looks to wait, wait
for what you might want to know, to
know the roundness of verb and the
etched jarred-ness of adjective, this
knowledge is spread around in tiny
droplets of hard truths, formations
to live by, to strait-jacket the oozes
and to caress the noun, ah yes the
noun, how could we forget the noun?
After the mauling, an erstwhile salutary gasp
Would that the severance of hatched heads suffice?
The sufficiency is brought forth in a vestibule that
affronts the ghost of nine lives lived out in traffic.
Nine protracted possibilities that can be counted on
fingertips, all but one remaining, screaming out alone.
When the lone shriek-er is bypassed in seniority as
others have a historic precedent and one doesn’t.
History begets history not linearly but in a mathematical
formula which if articulated can be quite satisfying.
Retooling the blandishments, some cheap, some creepy
Many lying in wait, some left in the sun collecting noon-dust
Remembering the crispness that followed your mumbles
And fashioning a fortress of unknowns out of it, each un
Known lisping a tiny bit of ground, grit, and solemn smile
That could be mistaken for grace but for the cynical stance.