It may be surmised that Mrs. Byrne was cuniculous
full of holes, windings, or rabbits.
If so, far be it from fault as rabbits
I hope, populate my body. Windings,
holes, that is humanity, that is willingness
to pluck a leaf from forest floor
examine ridges to identify
such a wondrous shape

if you were to sloom away an afternoon
under cover of roof or swaying
in netted clutch of hammock
would you consider yourself rowlyrag?
A dark gray stone clinking about
in a plastic sack a beachcomer
has inserted adrift trifles, knock
of which harkens the ping of rail
layers tracking westward through dust.

What of a yex at the next table
in the velour-lined restaurant
you visit Thursday evenings
where your table awaits?
A simple error in intake of fluids
can cause a hiccup, cough. Do
you obvallate yourself with the menu
or mutter momzer loud enough
for the offender to take offense?

You know I shouldn’t consign you mool
dry earth, a grave, to bury, to crumble.
I’m just a keek puttering around Mrs. Byrne’s
collection, surreptitiously accounting your
daily behavior; an industrial spy,
a peeping Tom thumb salivating to turn

this exquisite moment into izles
specks of soot; sparks without an
intersilient moment to snatch your breath
suddenly emerging in the midst of something.