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Thigh after thigh brushing a proud

  perimeter of orange cones oblong

heavy bottoms upended rocking boxy 

open noses swayed

metronomes settling lilting caution

                                                                         tape to tripwire. 

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For JS3


A storm trickling to the sewage 

depths reassembling back up into 

a body encroaching the surface 

in oversized singing bowl tones,

rippling manhole cover dances

above the road lips splashing one 

side at a time in uneven restraint. 


The cold metal

hyphen unlocking

a fire door bristling

their strained back stooped   

over the descending stair

case hung arms supporting

a sofa's knobby feet nudged 

forward other side arising level 

  from its slant fingers worming 


tapered corners. 

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Whipping propellers holding

a copter hovering an arms

lunge from rooftop lips, breezing 


in the scrunched 

faces of a porch 

dwelling audience 


awestruck at the unmoving

intruder overhead. No operator 

nor logo is visible through the dusk’s 

orange smothering on its glass panes. 


The touched get ripped from their twigs into the steady, viscous twister.

The other leaves bop with death metal fervor, flopping wild to shared impetus.

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