Ha! Cataclysm. Abstractionism.
Death by boredom. Babyism.

I do not do what I promise to do.
Unless, my promises are to you.

But if my promises are nerves on
tightropes, choking, babyblue —

Then here’s a predicament. Set
like an old watch, whose arms

grew and grew. Set like a footpath
under winter’s slimy rot. Wretched.

Like a stomach flu. A list of words
sit upon the desk, each one a tiny star

in a Universe of rain and fire and
blistering light. Each one screams

out for something useful to do.
Here’s yours, Ms. Hopscotch —

A fat tick in all the boxes; the final
one says Who? Who, my dear, are you?

 

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