Bughouse Radio

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
marigold dropping
round petals, tipped bowl, remade

divisible zero-difference-limits,
circumlocution—of book—
[H]umean inference)

Bughouse radio blares on-on—

Furs abroad, and window slips lip
a
coal, Atlantic green. Is cradled time a
lukewarm froth of yellow? (convened,
earnest,
fellow rivulets:
an energized, syncretist
historicity of

Bundist club spouts—my bughouse radio
glue warped—hatched on silver lustre,
smelted, slopped across the cockroach
envelope
of boring white)

Bughouse radio alerts, radial elements
get active.

Radio elements moor.