A n d r e w F e l s i n g e r
The booming flowers are an affect of local politics
Just as the bed sheets are torn to assure us peace
Thusly we misidentify ourselves as a cannon
And a gaffe is made to turn its back
Like the sky flung across the neck of a welcoming nude
Each cylinder, orchid, thread, furnace
Has time and thought at its most real
For as the screaming quiets the neighborhood
The melon is cut.
Andrew Felsinger continues to edit -VeRT.