I dust the smoke of a campfire
with an old crow feather. I pull
a smattering of latin out of my pocket
to drape as tinsel on an Bastille day
blue rose. I wash choruses
out of my lorazepam tablets.
xxxxI must stop now.
All my vowels threaten a strike
and suspend the negotiations:
I bent the collective bargaining rules
on the new poetry contract,
insisting the letter “y” choose solely
to be a vowel or a consonant
for consistency’s sake.