Fume Adore

by kholinar

There are fumes
and then there’s fumerate;
the mass unladen
on our plates.

Her platelets churn
but only urns
contain the grates.

A Sage relates this
unseen fate,
wild facts redacted
in the face
of acting ranks.

Our Pepper mills about
and outs the cranks,
reveals their saucers simply —
as fantastic pranks.