If the president is a hoax, how about your boyfriend?

Missing an idea of particularity, there’s an unbuttoned, squeegeeing pain to wrest
Your hermaphroditic itches gerrymandered in ambiguity.

Contentment rates are raised where
They go away,
released at last as what-about-isms and impartial dyscalculia —

The tide appears to notarize all of this — That and best,
we have come to our senses putting up fresher signs of interminable equivocation.

Apology to your mate.