a stolen sonnet

the adaptive control of optical beam jitter

left, left sadly, but

a sack of fine-milled flour;

i gave the fewer

but they were locked though I booted my foot;

vulgarity raised to the last power?

embraceth now with tears of ruth and blood:

Let’s say, “Amen,” not make a fuss,

the earth with the doors of forever.

First the sun then the bums:

they cannot see, they cannot hear.

Now they come down the ramps! rise up from the water!

as indulgence but.

come without being there—

it’s not so hot.