“Roses are red,
violets are too.
In Soviet Russia,
poem writes YOU!”


Now pure-bred sounds shake all on their own, beaker-speaks for which the only demand in the world
is for words unsown in that world
where field animals
have no language
only evolution
which is a picture
not a history
although it looks like one


dictionary at light’s squeak,
glimpse as skin too instead,
away from things the while
beyond them. chin smidgens.