Justice w/ passion. Sonnets of seltzer

foaming mercury selenide... I told you this’s a bad idea.

I keep going, barefoot & outdoors

the tuba bits are detouring into surf & compact surfaces


— praise & the opposite grow acrostic, slightly rife

after doublecrosses. I grab my pen & clamber over to

your jet gate where you’re holding sound-

tracks w/ pulleys over notes of civet & benzoin.



My fly is open. I feel overextended & I forget big words,

under whose thumb might this be? This quiet nook

is a stretch of dark matter — the glove-as-puppet’s a trap

while phys ed shifts one martial art at a time



into the present. Right, a physical affair is supported by a look,

heated, promoting sea plankton. Bookmarks aren’t supported.