Parading

Our voices are like

Alone with our madness and favorite flower

Good grief, gods do what they like.

“It must be very beautiful, the sunset,

I see private dreams,

How to unpin this particular

How ring right out our sordid turbid time,

Bics coaxed to climax by God’s thwapping bass,

is an aperture’s quick snap—

as near to nothing as can be