Life Can Be Poor Sport, In A Port Of Calling

Life can be poor sport in a port of Calling,
where echo the windge-furies of all effort-
to escort one’s peril
into a chamber
of unmarked
Karmas.

Where butterflies wear chainmail
On any given Sunday.

II

The ruse is an opulent wreck.
It gleams where your knives-
make peace
with The
Edit.

As the cupboard is bare,
save for the hazel
in your eyes on
Holiday.

And all turbulence you dreamt of-
when your kites were too aloft
to Sleep.

Was just So.

III

So.