headline poetry

Our uneasy summer air is offending their nostrils,
they are on their knees in cold, dark, small boxes,
leaving us alone with our private pleasures.

The lost and little were taken but not loved,
awaken but not moved;
yet i stayed inside to
probe homey faces
exploding the crisis in question.

After the forgotten green hilltop,
hand in hand, smiles lost and little fading,
find us prancing gaily in our echoing chamber
the world’s camera eye
bound to our delicate bodices.

In his guttural breakdown,
he seeks solace in hokey pastimes and piggish pleasures;
the taste sensations divine and aligned are not mine, while
the stalks of the stocks embedded in peace and delirium
have no wet resolution.