This is just the sort of evolutionary honesty I have come
to expect, moreover to desire, from Zero and his verse.
We wend our way alongside the pasture’s creekbank,
looking for the amateur narrator. Cattle low intimately.
This pit is full of lava and the snowmen have their own
allure. I raise my spatula to the bruised pigeons of Italy.
They have their pills. They do not but seek revenge for
the snapshots, only for all cameras everywhere. The old
bulbs wanted more than just another dud story, another
sell-out scheme of escaped narrative. I’ve seen several
movies interjected into various beds, each electric in its
dog-loving warmth. Lift your [voice]! I lift mine. Zero
will be home at nine by all measure of predictability. Life is
not but broken. We have yet to see the bony snowmen burn.
