…

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

…