Bill Yarrow

Before the flood, the chaos was sufficient. Beavers played with squirrels as in original nature. Reptile blood flowed where mammals’ milk had spilled. Caravans of poems crossed deserts of rhyme settling in papier-mâché orchards where Frau Spittle whispered, “The fall is upon us.”

Orchids of the unbearable! Butterflies of the blemished! At the border of ignition sit witches and lopsided princesses, eyes full of habitude and indolence, itching to express their indignation to beasts ‘of fabulous elegance.’

Libraries General are under attack. The tar paper parturition of the sky. The end of the world is asking for our hand. Eventually the cymbals settle down, the heated cathedrals retreat, and all the crevices return to solid rock. A fervid song is sung by roving meteors above formidable engineers. Rifles intubate roses. Silica fears are soothed into varnished torpor.

A line of poplars along Periphery Avenue redefines the shadows as seen from the upper floors of the Congeries Center. A foolish bird lays two eggs in the open eaves. A plumber lights a bent cigarette. An elderly couple embraces as if they really meant it.

Sara Gudlust displays her wares at the Carnival of Cherubs. Selling poultices and signifying salts, business is brisk, all profits going to the Duma for the Reunification. The weather is strophic, so the crowds, like winds at polar midnight, are fierce. A well-known imperialist approaches the counter where sales are transacted. He gestures to the cashier who smiles at him financially. Inherited piety, everyone agrees, can be ruinous.