in just a minute tha pan
will be hot and thin wiffs
of steam will shoot like turnip blooms
filling up a cauldron of empty stomachs

out there the cold sands of time keep filling a valse
with notes
and tinkly tinkly little sarcoma
lymphoma them up on the tellephona
its a changing world and the written burden
of that on a lid is lifted and the moths can remain or leave
as they refuse or pee