gee, I’m a throwback, not even ex-worthy
when sitting at the stained desktop where I’m gutting a poem
so I’ll stroll lots the gnats tagging along

what water is not stagnant is on a waiting list
in the middle of it’s a dimmer switch
a limb that’s thinking it’s a stick

the Immortals are telling more lies
like how I’m looking more gangly in latex,
am easily vexed by most zippers

little is not sold-on-loss language-wise
though I saw to it with an unsupervised gallantry,
vats and vats of it never acting its age

sill-tied, I’ll tell this storm to let me in
on its stories or try out some slotted-light
till I’m eyed more the monster than most