My pages, disheveled. I’ll let you
Organize them. Not my problem,
Anymore. This, my fault. I stapled my
Self to this story. And now what can I
Do, trout pity. But now, clouded. So
quiet here. Finally, love. Funny for
lost hares. Picking at page pieces, for a
Peace streak. More intentioned inhales
Make the frame shake all blame.
Multiplied by. Depot slowed, I’ll blame
Weather. Or wine. Designing another
Book. ANOTHER. If you’d believe.
Casting mySelf into last-minute play.
Hoping it lasts the whole day.