Bughouse radio turns placid (shows noted).
Nor’eastern shores, vigilant in
a sense of handed, fitted, the
remote slate urn
of rock slapping fluidity.
(bughouse radio now turns off: flowed
round petals, tipped bowl, remade
Bughouse radio blares on-on—
Furs abroad, and window slips lip
coal, Atlantic green. Is cradled time a
lukewarm froth of yellow? (convened,
an energized, syncretist
Bundist club spouts—my bughouse radio
glue warped—hatched on silver lustre,
smelted, slopped across the cockroach
of boring white)
Bughouse radio alerts, radial elements
Radio elements moor.