Dearest alphabetchagammaglob,
o mulish puke & mucus summoning six
bucket brigades a day to tote,
you gutter-glib & tireless
liar listen up: the end humps near, the abyss
whistles & scratches its signal itch;
its anathematic prompts & twists,
enlists our own two wits to woo us, even as we insist
we’ve already spun our likenesses true, which in fact we did do.
Nobody makes self & other entirely up, & never
exactly hot buttered fun to persist—yet spare me not
one more spring illness green at the gills & spoiling
for appetite, any love duet at all among these sour
lilac slumps some slack-&-grifter must’ve left
us both behind among, still hunching our long haul.