Always dawn, eve. Embanked fog,
settled in, is loathed to lift. M., I
see and raise your AKG C414,
wager singing–not singed–star
even as a faint, failing filament
lacerates Perecesque night. For whom-
ever purse the kitty mounts, offered
up to this birth control pill-
purchased spread. O Pamela, post-
Ophelia, Malachi nee Mark–
a mother is a fish. My darlings,
who is that running out of time,
barn, Ryder? Some jazz was playing–
par but for the vase of ashes,
loathed, loathing these leave-takings…
Goodnight Ladies, sweet prince, yes,
t’is the night before the Media Room
put pen to paper as background
scratchy turntablism. Tombstones radio
back the ground. Shifting sand dunes
mount Lake–not Lady–M.
Background cackle–Molly? Yes?
out of jukebox whack.