What Light? Whose Tunnel? My End?
W
When the jigs up
And over before it begins
I sing the chorus backwards
In the backwoods harmony of
One’s onetime Clan-
dutifully out of tune with
time and myopic within
A minuet of the moment
If only,
Dance was a prance forward
Not a return to position
Contrition could be a Curtain Call
That drapes the shroud
Fodder
Now that platitude is six to five & pick-em
over what’s empirical, or even a paradox-
Gig rhymes with Vigorish,
while the algorithm approaches Sainthood
with parsimony soon to Cannon.
