Proscribed

In this fog how our 2 ships bump into
one another is still a mystery.
Perhaps, it’s the a stolen wind
causes mine to aimlessly wander
adrift.

Instead of a joined zephyr
today I received an enjoined
breeze and breaths are not sufficient
to pilot my craft.

Zeal zapped xenons billows of
clouds one would think might
overcome. . .
But my love is more enduring
and if I am proscribed to

no

more
boasting
no
more
pede-stool
building

I cede to the fucking pigeons
the fouls I would have for
my supper’s repast
a dead plate of squab(bles)

I digested all I could
and now my silence
is regulated and satiated
I blame the way I
food poisoned myself.


Damn Pigeons!