FORCE OF FEELING
Nothing is absurd when people are being killed
around you like flies. Some way out
of the mire, denuded dust. Checking
(chalking) as it turns—spin of
latched delegation, which forecasts
felicitation. Not yet to dance, to tip
as tone delays, ensnares. Silly widget
creatured by antebellum forest rangers
as if or when, who without wanting withers.
Meanwhile, at glance disposed
to any glaze while splay is act, foremost
foremast incised by the veridical coat
check boy swore he never took no
cookery. Swell, just as well really, better,
just forget it, forget it was ever
mentioned.