• These dismal prisms
    are boisterous to my soles,
    loosely derelict
    from the pedagouge
    of mud
    and green blades.

    Such ill-chromatic quilts
    may forcibly blind the painter,
    but acridly
    leave me
    at a squint
    and my lungs
    as frozen brimstone.

    Thus is the downfall of white,
    so illicit, yet pertaining to time,
    is the penal yowl
    of a maddened mother,
    bringing forth
    to me
    a detest
    of this frigid incubus.