Dr. Fire ate the house Innatrist.
He the sad specialist unfurling
dreadlocks and routine pismire
loppenflocks. You the sour mash,
you the rashy extension: expiate
my dog with your own regicide.
Ge björnen mat, Richard. Vasty
are thy abbatoirs, no telos to
lose one’s way in. Side-by-side
with dragons of mischance,
their breath thawing white Pop-
pyseed bagEls. Clomp clomp
across the room, upon the slats
the platform prompting lapse.
To the heartfelt serpent’s longing,
the asp is only rapacious when
his bite if felt this close, this close.
English for “wish” is not “gyro.”
I steal rest from old wives’ pockets.
