Sink, peasants, shaking and pirouetting.
Purple beggars in Fall's tree-lined
poorhouse! Hermits of October in
cold speckles on tin snips
sinking, smashing out gullies of
fierce touch (more than a
touch, a crippling slap), drawing
in earth to solar plexus.
I have seen the leaves,
the slippery bark of nonsense!
A poltergeist in dirt's haven.
Challenge me! I will not
falter within black scowling eyes,
dancing on God's floppy bonnet.