Cush Points

Turbines left for dread peel 

out of here in arrears, 

and sun coins a new 

flabbergast. It's in me 

to revive the choice

not to be a cinder, any

maverick will do for

now, and at the heirloom 

of our breath ship shaped

like private client services

designed to stealth us 

in faux renaissance 

waters where no one swims.

I guess you maybe know

your way around the truth,

kind of uncouth to wave

at your inferiors, you say

under your breath. A leather

vest, a shield to protect you

from belonging to a population

that includes you. How nimble

you must be to escape

the isness. 

Repeat after me and my shadow-

consumer bake off, listen to

the dirge that keeps you from going

hungry at the time you last (least) 

recall, the sideways clasp of finger lakes 

and treasonous viola clef.

It's horseshoe summer again,

time to visit Pennsylvania where

flowers and the horses seem friends. 

People watch renditions of this dance, 

imagine their own France, indelible

with prance and sugar-coated

power surges to mute the urge

to reciprocate a gateless betweenness

that might expiate some sins

some twinned foretaste of another

dreamed room.