Throat of the robin, fried on an iron skillet, dusted in fennel-
But where was King?
Milling the marble, footsteps echo, in a place between death and yesterday.
Knit-browed and faltering to resolve his tumescent valor with the
shrill population, smitten with rebates and cheating the bottom line
He knows they can knuckle and claw their way up the once-geologic incline
What can he do? cut and appear
cots and illustrious blankets with minimal frequency
Now clear the victims away
As the day recedes, he hedges his bets, feeding addiction to the self
of which there are further ramifications, as
events, thoughts appear to him as pixels of a horizon:
I want to be on the dollar bill