Fugue: torn clothes
man horizontal the oxcart
at the edged, mud-rocky field,
they tape parking lights
in the lippy defile
—to the shrapnel gardening goat child.
Revolt, the last gnomic moment,
stung clamor dirtier,
all helping,
people just having jobs,
instabstantial—martyrdom’s fusion
of trysts—who had cars even?
Single, seeks weapons of mass destruction,
walks on the beach.
The wooziest jealousy
somehow committed
omnivorous in it: didn’t
sex coruscatingly:
street
tongued in hospital
to inimical fruits
against her gazelle.
