in a stew
contagious lil’ clevers— —
these nerves unnerving in my leisures.
my tongue in basic natter severs…
(but never stutters in my thoughts
nor in my dreams where i’ve fought.)
i set up wings for myself
up on this life i call “the shelf”,
but freight bestrews me right to left;
though, vict’ry keeps by rivulets
where the shining beading sets.
a sum too good is something off;
it’s as a stew without a broth.
sometimes a standard needs a sauce —
not quite piquant or bordelaise,
but more a tweak of olden ways.
fond reminders, fond remainders
turn like swifts too close to danger.
i’m blue-livid’s doppelgänger,
a touch-me-not in binding weed.
but looking up — — the sky’s still tweed.
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