Were we ever to begin quenching
Our thirst for spirit, released from
The echoic trip of relentless tomorrows.
Abducted by the unstressed highballers,
Kneeling in green leafies . . .
Our apathy would be cauterized. Still
Eyeworms bleed from catatonia's
Only capsized shelter dwelling.
A pagoda inflamed with the
Accouterments du jour:

Bellyphones, business loafers, outfits
To outwit the nattiest; and we are to
Traverse another scorched soulscape
With watery hearts.

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