[a strange fortune …]

a strange fortune
the ministry where they linger—
throttle linking (and also separating)
belles from godsons (or ankles?)
a lovely novitiate
that homely workhouse,
that most quotidian of sizzles—
the portcullis?

what of grandmother porticoes—
postage-standing façade of tendons
or is it tom-toms?
pasted in plaid upon our donkeys
arguments, secular aggressors,
our spleens, our spelt,
wherever they may be,
legations sit with them awhile
affecting phrase-estimates
and the rondos of chants:

there’s no place like home … there’s no place like home … there’s no place like home …

What I’m Reading:

the sun fails to make sense anymore

— Jake Skeets / “A Walk in Tsaile”