A solid insistence (something like pushy furniture) furtively
fails the riddle of
false haze.
A fog that doesn’t quite subsist,
sprawls out a costly
swerve (Dear Turn,) brandishing absence
as a forerunner to scream,
uprooting a greasy shared divulgence (the sort that slips throats)
swilled down like tranquillisers to perish memories.
Whipping detection into shape
with a tipple that teeters on ripe
gentleness, sluggish yet blatant
to grapple
and grin
as surplus hindsight chronicles the charm that chips.
