Mornings, the guy is basically toothless
and quiet: all black
coffee and no talking, thank you.
By afternoon, though, he's
so through
with contemplating that sermon of serene sky,
and, much like the light in the windows
gradually twisting pallid, then chilly,
and finally cruel, his mouth too starts twisting
toward the shape of the new vulgarian's—one
who's so ruthlessly "past all that"
and who is presently
howling out-loud at the neon heaven glow of
internet television—or else
hunching over to hellishly
wolf down helpless sprats,
all uniformly slashed, preemptively
decapitated, and buried
two tons-deep beneath
the brutish crust of some ancient stone-
ground mustard.
