thunder in the border lounge

the carpet runs for cover

the apricot armrest wears

its amputation like an official

decoration, say the order of

australia, the bathroom

of the failed statistic steams

like a fragrant wonton

where are the rusks, here’s

the superglue to give

the toffee apple its

orthodontal gloss; the bow

of the world touches its

seven toes trying to find

direction, now that

the haystack monarchs

are sniffing at their

pyrex futures the proof

lies in the oven