A Piece of Ilk

Lethargic whittling 

en plein air trilled play 

where a breath mark

might rest its case. 

A basted bird sliced 

to pry open our faith 

from nettled space. 

Some sorry sport

Disports at will. Swilled 

appetite in arrears. 

Gold-plated platelets 

give it a rest, 

a test, attesting 

to varietals. 

Swanky parties resist 

most swallow swollen 

solace out in space. 

That cuts a fine swath 

until we go goth 

into the relic parlor 

with haste. Whose boots 

are these I think . . . 

suggests egregious taste 

in men who spurn the dowry 

before each hen 

comes to winter here. 

With wherewithal to bear 

on blasphemy

you would recognize

if you fed yourself

the only story scorched

for sunset ablaze 

with glaze instead.