Back door's
minutely-rained-into step-dreams
pursue Poem into
a woman's red chores

The winded mud
seems peculiarly southern when Poem returns
over a decade later,
eager to explain himself to Criticism,
finally visiting or.

Back when Poem was mostly feathers,
Criticism inter-branched darkly under him.

Piffling roundly absent to resin
shortly after Poem tightened into vocality,
Criticism mastered himself calibrated
along the loam and ensign
of his iron.

Alwaysed thereafter in the reddest invisibilities
of Poem's vocation, he spryed diagrams
of concord splamorously beyond
the crinch of the minders
raucously misadvertising their inability
to increase down to from
or or,
as taste.

Poem followed the diagrams eleven-twelfths unknowingly,
struggling them into re-knowings
not even the loudest art-as-handmaid-of-autocracy
could studge anyone nimbled at all
from divining,
induteously.