Nature sits
back in stunned
wonder
at the brutality
of her own
cheap and abundant
laughter—
every growling distended
stomach out there
is an acidic argument
(and all and their
book-learned fervor
a damn bad
advertisement) for
the part of her
that's free
to be so dare-
devil aimless:
free free free—
free as only
an unsympathetic
jazz musician could be—
for part of her
must be?
in order
to inhale
and to to feel
the full breadth
of its aimlessness
as freedom.
Instead of
desperation,
that clinging tyrannical
emergency-love,
glazing the hand of
the fire alarm puller—
that same part of her
that has lately been hopping
around stepping
on millions of ants—
because of its
alleged
compassion
for some
broken glass.
