Airplane low over the burnt yards, Alleghenies
alert with pine tree stubble,
I read a comedian grown in white suburbia
knows his kid will in a few years spill the dinner gravy and he
will completely lose it
bark, attack, tie ripped, racking the brass trivet on sides.
We know that answer like a fact.
Our moon is essentially gray — or blank, the mystery object
found in an archeological dig on a beach
mostly ground up shell & crab. Turns out it's the back of a clock,
cheap, patinaed circle with holes punched through
as incompatible with antiquity,
as squeezed into the jeans of importance as
jazz piano streaming while a gasman reads the meter?
Bam, gravy spills, anger spills: two things saturate, damp sag,
put together that were not
meant. Linked, the computer directs:
Continue only if you really are fhends with Kathy.
Continue only if you are afraid of the sun.