from “October Sequence,” #47
Tell me when to advance that I may pass 
The salary the celery the salt
Just as convention therapy allows
Things to occur 
Within this artifice
As a quotient held in abeyance 
Crashes roundly soundly 
Toward fracture 
As a blimp that meets shrill cacti
On the limbic field 
Where dawdling prevails and intellect 
Discouraged ventures home 
Its tail between its legs 
The pegs and pedagogy 
Rifled with the undue murk 
Of syllables within the silos 
We erase from an army 
Of consoling principles 

Photo by EyeEm from Adobe Stock


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