Effortlessly Ill

it’s two or three or four our

cadence standard

time, and there

is that profoundly

ermined couch of tinny

squelching all without, rain,

roof runoff, in this

open window summer tuesday nite,

and bleeping is the order of

the cooling of the hour, and vodka

is the soothing music

comping in the grapple in the

grist of this, so effortlessly ill,

explain the time.

/

it’s once,

our standard

time, and most of that

is

gaffled by the grinching

giggled gamboling

and birthdays in the sort of spring