a moment like this

eggs on a sympathetic aging patriarch
spirit of murder reveal yourself gradually
the flesh about his wrists in vengeful orbit

a businessman who lived his speculation
estranged in the department of the loveless
a confession — the only shock neglected

control consummate — a coda
observer of human behavior
and chairmen to the unspoken

son — toll harsh and neglectful
a trunk of kind bacon in the boot
in the soot and eventually his own dinner

worked the dramatic machinations of the flesh
stayed largely within the confines of the order where he gently pried younger employees

from his sentences
from his pilgrim crescendos
from his mistress

from his glazed doughnuts
from his latent thighs
from the click narrative

ironic
staged
humiliation

corners

dark

What I’m Reading:

My eye is a planet with another motion,
with its orbits and burials;
each dawn I forget
where I came from.

— John Tarrant / “Flute”