Demonstrating the proper form for free weights
on the flimsy scaffold in the winkling of a storm
then the absence
the break in the purpling days and nights
the nights rife with howling
time witnessing the palpability
sauntering through the early morning railroad flat.
Perhaps you are still overwhelmed
despite the smothering insistence of imposters
who keep arguing
You think it; you did it.
One thing leading to another . . . then another . . . then another
the Rothkovian blur between love and hate rubbed raw
the principal inducted into the minority of givers.
How sweet it is?
Your first thoughts? The accoutrements of passion?
All part of the con hung out to dry
within view of the nosebleed section in this miniseries.
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| Martina Hoogland Ivanow |