So fast and errant, an ungulate going its way did not pause
to greet us.
The atrocious backlog was phoning again at all hours.
We felt special the day of the flood as if we had long prayed
for disaster and it had finally come to deliver us.
The backwing of the spectacle was briefly stabled.
Anything he said elicited loud guffaws and spectral tapping.
My god, she said, were they drinking broom juice? What
were they thinking?
The blast aroused ancient fears of woeful neighbors.
Still, the rightful owners of the cave might desire these
toggled satellites.
The guy sponsoring the coconut–yes, that guy.
Lakes of oil slid through the cities like sloe-eyed harlots
searching for dibs.
But our endless novenas infiltrated even the most arid
fortitudes.
Uncommonly agreeable, the cat spoke in couplets.
Copper spattered the walls and ceilings.
We were certain the moodling was responsible, but we
could not say so.
The horizon drifted despite endless nailing.
Such warrants as they pleaded were robust and defiant.
The most formidable pinprick, like solar wind.
The absolutes had already been eaten, alas.
Look, he said, I need lulls and biscuits, not this mojo.
But we protest your furious telescope and abandon your
lairs.
The messenger collapsed.
There’s nothing left he cried. The paws. The paws!
Deserted aquifers and mendacious crustaceans.
And all their icy feathered singlets.