I must ask, are you
writing the movie or
are you locked
in the chamber of the perpetual nap
where habit precludes
breaking the hacks that prevent the reins-free ride
on the blossoming thermals of the day
so inviting – so inspiring – so chock full
of nutrition they could feed a civilization
were their ears not wadded with butter
and dead verbs
scraped from the eyes
of mangled messengers
so, breathing – so, believing – so much
potential to be redeemed
in prescient couplets
in the disquiet of unbroken
horses bottled and corked
with electricity
and sharp jolts in the hips and loins
in vibrations
that rattle the lips
where teeth meet tongue
to celebrate the overture
with prophetic fanfares
and the closing credits with liberating sobs
and dustings of salt
from where the world
can’t hear them