Poetry

The sizzling legs wait for 
an infinitesimal pause 
to learn on approaching zero. 
 
I am not cultish: 
the egg has walked out 
on a dwarf mother. 
 
The dead horse was rising 
after eating dirt. Naked 
flame will decide for – 
 
the rights of a man in a 
hot night. Deferred a perfect 
landing on cherries. The 
 
colors were fighting 
for the supremacy of 
twisted necks.