poetry is not

its expression is
democratic
its forms are
platonic

sound is an anecdote of objects falsely gesturing themselves

flames set what’s real back some

sit images sit
x marks the ass is worn down

on the coat hangers
we hang, assembled in reality

makeshifted to the devilry of

breathing into the monster around the corner
the likes of under the bed

& into run, stews long enough
Your answers found at the bottom

the sirens lead
the trucks
to tragedy