jostle for the sun’s brandished meal. A minor chord day, compressing the worms in their tight & silent world. Reluctant seeds gaping to a care-worn future, scattered cosmos unimpressed. What’s that you say, Madame President? Emoticons embellishing perception via harbingers of swoon. Elsewise processing the inputs, despite an endless weary trap seasoned with too much not enough. A standard deviation from deviation thrown at any problem like onions, gold nuggets, skyscrapers, & severed heads abloom like dogged hares. Who might not be precious, messy, & inconsequent? Roped together by this tinsel glint of agency, that floozy hope, or her closest uncloseted kin.

Originally published in White Wall Review 40 (2016)