Black-clad morsel
She can make it to Lee’s and back;
she has ten minutes.
A table full of mild acquaintances,
strangers no less. Giddy sailboats
sail Transamerica on Montgomery;
turns out it’s just a “trade” consulate office,
so we can’t move to Canada today.
This is poetics? It’s all about knee-jerking
war and romantic cravings,
Ghost Dog. Leave it to
Beaver in his new outfit and
scrunchy-face. How do they get it so smooth?
Such a tapestry, fomenting
solid left indent and
nonchalance, pools like thread.
Pick up the (virtual) iron-on
crossword puzzle
and spoon like a river.
