It’s serious, you bloat, the finger fetish
I’ve cultivated spurns elegantly
One choice, two choice, the button pusher
Tap dancing chronicler of the ATM
And her forlorn breast-eye-mirror
Force field of contusion on the world
See it in its bowl, request denied, withdraw
To vacuum grocery store, the bats dropping
Here, Christ, even with witnesses
Ordering things about is a hit on the head
With bats in finery, in scope dashed
Through to external punctuality
Throw up an elbow to the outside world
Because, whatever happens, save the hand.
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