Christopher Mulrooney
a feather in his cap
first into diktat
and then into je ne sais quoi
picture them sans fin
whilst I parse them dispatches
from the home front
and then the moment arrives
it arrives at the heels
it spaniels it dogs it bites the ass of déclaration
as I am shirtless in shorts
because the declining days are no hotter than Mengele's stare
I go fetch my blue bathrobe
and here the microcosmic emblem of her image in a millisecond
of transformed perception is
projected on a screen
and the project here solicited
_______________________________________________________________ sea-chanties
there's nearly always that in her mouth
that garbles descriptions of her weather folk descriptions travelers
on her steamships
I would suspect the social directors en route
but perhaps there is one at home
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