Seam Rip in the Evening
Inkling in the wrinkling skyline,
a dinette-set dinky and regretted, a dusk bulky and old
daunted in watercolors past the tight passage of a streetlight.
Doozy does what doozy does, doesn’t consult
or write; one less doozy these days
to contend with.
Lets less get a toehold,
loud scrounge down in the landfill,
ancillary as a micromanaged mirage less susceptible to the doozy,
less susceptible in general. Still, a spark
or other inkling, a twinkle or a firestart,
evening uneasy as the static releases.
A whole coast of wheezes, the sea’s vocals hoarse,
the creatures all moving in reverse.
- B B Pine