How sincere can the blisters be
or the well worn mops in the pact
mud closet, or scared sounds
will unplug and start livid the work
the needs getting done, but needs
getting done. The piles, the chiropodist
whose dressed well went to work.
The crusty bread, the crust, the end
of loaf soaked in thin broth and eaten.
Seat leavened by the metal strips
bolted into the wink of an eye blinking,
in the coach of the pram of the Conestoga
wagon that carried them dilettantes
from the banks of Missouri to the heat-
sink of luxury on some fabled coast
or the banks of the sweat sea.
We toil endlessly. We, the foil of every
reader who means well, has intents
all their own, and the metere of a slow
tango or a waltz that's the haunt of
everyplace we've already been together.
The street under each of our feet feels
the naught of incognizance , how much better?
This store. That store, that place, that gallery.
That burlesquerie that we never visited
but thought of together. Still holding
to the hope that ignorance brings.
The use of two siblings who care for each other
but know that they're not twins, they're
not lovers, but brothers. They friends
and they're amicable, both. But they want it.
