…
but if it fits – it must go in
& so the rhymers stroke a chin
the breezes blow in figure eights
the bubblegum sun masticates
the clouds aloud, a bursting sky
the rest is but a butterfly
a post-it-note, the shepherds blah
the leopards here not spotted far
upon another pigeon day
the poets float & scroat away
a sort of door, a flowing so
a cattle cat & mornings glow
a certain number’s syllables
the stresses dee in intervals
between the dums & on she plods
& then she ends, you lucky sods
…