oaf

fetch another

the cleaver is fine
boredom is enough
to militate an edge
against it

concern yourself
with the measuring rod

the space between integers
is hardly the sidestep
or proscenium you thought

what an odd onus
a dearth is

barter with sorcery and
be vexed by eggshells

to feel out
past or on ahead
of the fog
of control

a rotation of advantages

a performance
of governance

put down the hours
critique one’s themes
thwart apart

domed gnomon
gnomic sun

When I’m beside
myself I’m sized right
out of the pattern —
shunted back
to an elliptic
of molecules.
A jar inside
a jar is still a jar
and no wonder.