Poetry

A smear campaign starts
against the ladder, which permits―
the ascension, but leaves the spaces in between,
of dark. You stand still.
 
The hunger becomes the mouth―
of rags. I will come and collect
some numbers.
 
It was useless to hunker―
after the game. The fear will ultimately
start a monologue.
 
On bees, I will build a
synopsis. The sleuth always falters
when the moon hides.
 
A canned script draws the
scorn. The player had become grey―
in dark.
 
A bunch of mushrooms,
like tall girls, standing
in wind, gossiping.