Another Year of This
Here is a dusty dish under the sky
some hope to repossess shining.
Rupture-rate of cloud-high old sun
fitted to crass habit through shot glass.
True, discernable decline in plenty scores
a narrative ache pale as roast pork
which is just a waitress-walk from here.
Chimney pots, real but out of reach as
a beloved anapaest, do not stand to mock
the Count who does not,
downloading sighs onto a wicker bed
on coverlet cross-hatched with print
spelling catastrophe but settling for clues.
He knows they will invade beneath
the floorboards, their intricate piping
of weapons disguised as tiered cake.
He knows their mock entrails.
He knows their route to seethe
and the electric force of their delicious
soup. Accumulation through restraint.