(A la Gertrude Stein)
Sty of vape hoops on sonnets that chafe as they fly: stomachs of past that vacate as penance. Acts of atonement snoop on my helm, no stops, a heaven of yes shapes.
Chase my climate, a morality that melts like a man’s tie. It means nothing to haggle a gate to greatness, that alternate route to struggle and “no” and alienation. So teethe in me a tract to my cleaving inner child. It doesn’t have the clout to cry.