Look close- this circle is made of squares.

Each one sprinkled with hyperactivity

A sandy man percusses an empty pickle tub,

Accepting coins and kisses.

Women are horsey and know they can want.

Their stilettos walk ahead of them,

And their men blue collar the concrete they walk on.

Tight tanks and slow shirts, and mother’s pendant.

Some two hundred miles away,

A black felt neck breaks the water, galump.

Lap, lap, literature sounds that much tastier.

I don’t have to blink in the night to see the cosmos,

Dashing off to work my dreams.

Realize that October is a seasonal patchwork,

Tartan orange, faded yellow, humble red,

And you, the spectator.

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