I hogwashed the noon

I hogwashed the noon at midday’s
strike; the hen of my moon is

telling me to go and rise above
flotsam. I say, “flotsam is not what

it is.” Epistemology confounds the
hen and it circumvents argument

calling, “afraid, afraid!” Yet
there is silence in the cull of

the argumentative hen; its moon
is red with soothe and I rest my case.