Count on these hours to pirouette and fall
into places unmentioned, continuous, extolled
as sunken cities’s tale, like soaking highways raw
with tears from the clouds of the morning rigmarole
cascading, replacing the preceding, seizing sweat
of salutary evenings in the pursuit of happiness.
Relief pleas, please, tell me again of sweet regret
soured with time, acidophilic, dark loving unremissed
before our sun comes anew, primed, prepped, and glazed
with the gemstone movements culminating, effervescence contained
in walking fog, in wetter drives seeking certainty unfazed
by the sickled toes, inept throes, the port de bras unarranged.
Count me in two, three, polonaise passing as is reason
better felt than spoke, tethers broke, held in, breathing en poisson.