Most nights we struggle

Most nights we

struggle. The dollars

are dancing, the

firmament romancing.

We are wanted and

over-misty at the prospect

of being denied. This feeble

walk, this tender

outreach that culminates

in horse-feathers and tales

of unrelenting woe, will not

prosecute us any more. The

Leviathan is substantial, is

lost on heathens, is an

anathema to most rational-

minded folk, who twist

and stare at certain tumult.

Thusly we proceed but we

will not bleed. The horoscope

of the unyielding, the brush of

the unwieldy. What fictional

flow gave forth his fine raiment?

What’s the reason for

a flower?