I’m wary
of the barely black button.
So I’ll make it with circus ties
and dry seasons,
belly-up lies,
and carousels
The ministers of fucking aeronautics
declare mistletoe failure
—and through the workings of daylight hours,
I strive not to bare the burden
of the barely black button.
Push rancor to its symphonic ultimate—
And on the edge, teetering—
Then, pratfall!
Goodnight, all.
