No, it’s
this world
we know
little of
kindly it
hides and
gratefully we
are hidden.
So, mentality
drives the
spoon, noting
lisps’ aspirant
deference. Got
to get
by without
a ladder’s
seem(l)y plaque.
Where to
spin?—the
cotton lurches
for its
gin, but
fear never
trusts its
maker.  Eyes
hold glances
to know
containedness, ignite
each store
to dissimulate
apparatus’ reliquary.
Or holes
to holler
to.

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