From corners churning amongst the stacks, it toils.A riddler of language and labyrinth, mojo and groove…
Who can say why no one talks at home?There’s no affection in her Sunday hand.Dad is elsewhere…
listen — if I could lounge in alliterationI would live by the letter Lliterallylull…
catchin zz’s on a city porch, deaf to the sycophantic sounds of El Farol, not a care in the world…