Gods in clods of earth. Parasites cloud. Wormed

riot. It’s ill how cures fail. Ill or cursed.

You don’t know? Neither denied nor confirmed.

Neither argued nor held my first. What thirst?

Cursed thirst. Ill met a grief ago. My rose

hue. My plague. “Be content,” Echo re: framed,

“give or take a fjord, what your verse-prose shows,”

Godly natted while her godly bowels strained ––

[¡G-Ross T.M.I.!] –– “is that your humor

needs work; don’t give up that day job just yet.”

–– That’s fair, I thought. My alcoholism

being what it is. “First cursed, y’all. Frost lunar

content.” No, not content … not yet. Not yet.

Not glow-worm come cloud. Not beau-bawd rhythm.