the clouds came
they drew away a sacrifice

i fight sometimes for sanity

the sky reminds against a shrew
one tall, one angular
it is the best defense to sit in a no-smoting area.

i'd appreciate another foot.
my right ankle grows cold.
i am ambivalent about its source,
but rest assured, i'll remember the curd and residue.

responsibility wants warm air,
caulking it vertically,
and three men juxtapose.
the triad of bourgeoiserie:
one grey, one glassed, one black, a toasted bean.
each with a changeable brow, at most times weightless.
to experiments they taste and turn,
at both from different papers, different crumbs.
by a force above they designate froth,