In the holy mess, chasing temporal
concerns with single-mindedness
of strays, alarm of an ambulance
stokes your presence and uneven
chords. Music of our mossiness
can't be held dear. Some we don't
wish to divvy up, some concerts
fail to flicflac.
In ear-piercing surround of scullery
you're as audible as your blazon.
There is no evidence of the well-
spoken as drumming shellacs the
sober. Meter isn't make-work, it
is balm for bafflements. It keeps
me high-toned and whole-souled.
At the secretaire.