Eighteen

agape and gleaming
continuity’s fantastic riven
nativity’s long scene, set up for
the last ride

to St. Charles
to let slip

imitative, telemetric,
brandishing willows;

Green, alive, oaks extorting Easter
magnolias of impaled adolescent
furies, roughed-up anomie’s

disabuse-of-poetic

compunction, posing, not to
look back: your
stoned semiotic conspiracy
in a choleric, and low mood.

As many else, could
not contain: the brown sugar,
kosher salt —
Quinean daemons.