A pitch gets crafted with the impetus to grab maybes from the wall.
A span is spun from waiting and then a bloom, a clutch of suspicious
failures at reading. The coffee long since gone lazy, cold in the cup.
Specs imply a fantasy, a sloppy rhetoric of misspellings,
as if a book were made of texts. Stats conjure the warranty, but what
lies around words, wraps worlds, worlds so small as a studio apartment
and trust, no. That one in umpteen when contingency pushes a point,
can go any direction, infinite sight lines of a moment pass
into this sordid knot, the unused cloth, that dog curiosity.
An ill eagle is a sick bird. Plus what you like has got to be sold.
Attrition swimming the tight circular options in a flesh barrel
while so many bullets dive in that all is displaced, shamed, smug, blasé.
Manual release… everything falling… holding on tight to a chair.
After words wishing it empty. Crisis management cum semantics
and twitches, glitchy eyed lingerings of slur and sibilant whisper.
If word then deed. My number unsung, no reciprocation, labor
to labor on with starving satisfaction. Then deed if word replies.
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