The cases hold court,
and, in resorts of all sorts,
saccarine slaves succumb
to oceans of foam,
their tar pits on loan,
and overdose
oral doctrines.
I’d cede the question,
if I could bleed suggestion
and mend it with ease.
Red leaves drift
past our gaze.
Vines prism with
ambition, unfolding
brilliant sprigs,
tangling wires
that drape these
drunken horizons.
Her bronzed face
casts votes for delectable
dallies in daisybeds,
rallied in rosepetal
rolls through
deep meadows,
ignoring all
orders of
recall.
Lots going on.
Babies delivered, banquets, getting back to ordinary work, irate cats, in-laws leaving town…
… and like 15 million software upgrades.
Feste's Lute 