twas the N-height before Chris Myth

& all thru the house    not an anapest was stirring
or string or    not even a
moose   at the edge of a Maine field for
indistinct actuality
i.e.  right now
Chevy’s giving more, 
suddenly   it’s as if looking solemn
in the urban nightmare economy
spoilate, to be a scamp
toward blurbs
liken to a lay sistera
fillip, shoddy

some blue re-doing of who you are nails down a signage feast;
the secret of being here’s a numbered document
you don’t get to spend a lot of time
examining it
he’s    in the middle of it,
meanwhile if you’re flippant, you jar one day into two:
a person of interest is to the police as unreleased

oh, wholly the nite
grabs at locks, the stars
are brightly shining, but not visible due to light pollution (that’s heavy)
mottled chitchat for the gagman; millions of
sharpening days till Chris Myth
uses theat knife, like the first fruits of lingering filch-rescind;

common sense goes smoldering,
& anyway, as you know,
anapests run backward

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