Our funnel of thumbs (an amorous tuber) decanted frogs
for the head cheese of drug-induced twang. Is this
what you foresaw when we pummeled the rapture? Small print
boiled in spine? I have no thorax or plume, only pokeweed.

Jitterbug. I encoded your Juneberry script and stashed it
in parenthetical wiggles beneath my skin. Months later,
when the blacksuit asked about sunspots, I refused to confess:
we were knee deep in the fissure of context, unforeseeable.

12/31/2005

Posted on 12/31/2005
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