I’m wearing
My reading glasses
Because I’m at my computer,
I’m staring
At the screen at last,
And I’m grateful I’m not a commuter,
And I swear at the air
That is harsh, and so sparse
Of all beauty, sucked out by all the polluters.
And there, the terror that is my nightmare dares me to carelessly pair with various nefarious heiresses…
In a parsley marsh I tie them with scarves and artlessly garnish their parts with sparkles and stars from irregular jars,
Shot out of flutes that are made from the roots of certain trees that bear fruits and then stored in Teutonic pewter. Yet all is not futile;
For I am their lover, I am their brute,
                                                              I am their looter

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