The Kitchen Sink

It is but four lines to momentary bright

brilliance, whether through fluorescent hum or

a booming doom in the fluid flight from night

to dawn to come away from the broken

window, its pane pale (can I say?) rider

on the sill, four florid lines to walk wing

and ne’er look back, never the pillar, ne’er

the flower, never the echo despairs

probably too late.  What pesters about her

strip in the desert, dune replaced by veil

replaced by dune, if enough block is worn

and if the right side of the decimal

is addressed and adorned by the spouse, the

spouse, the spouse?  O how, the sly mosquito

asks, does a predator make his way in

this world?  Fair-sighted quest for parasites

when the toasters are evacuated

and priorities so partially mislaid, shot by

shot by particle.  We lay to staring

at the pipes and joists of the underside

of the counter where stainless shines midst joint

compound and found spots of artificial

light left by the hand of the same slipshod

artisan that created the sodden back-

splash, the eviscerated outlet holes. 

You laugh and I will laugh with you, conjoined

water lines (count them:  one, two, three, four)

a maze of tease and cunning tendencies.

© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved