Turgid’s Folly

An enjambment of cowered embarkings,
and of razed,

spectacled isolation;

A mulish morsel; A proof
by yearning;

The flagellates in mediation—

deifying sweet
ardor, deifying

reluctant translation;
Thumb wrestling

Khronos’ mingled, exotic, eonic, fox-
gloved fingers;

Half-unburied,
half-alive;

Lowered aside
a salted, chubby,

ex-checkered twist.

The scorched
folk-temple

of the illiterate,
busted down

for a time,
later to exist.

The fear is wonderful,
it is rootless.

The heroic sweeps up,
and onto your ill-baited

shore.

“But I was a God
and you—

a fate spilling
rock!” Presti-

digitating trans-
mogrifications

that have mad-
doused me,

complete, readying
me (again)

for the wordless shift.