The Last Supper
between a solitary crease
presumptions coalesce under wicker threads.
“Why do I have to wait for this?”
It’s a wrap:
the conclusions made—a right;
a step to the stage with and without
reminded him of greasy spoons
terror-isms had during a crummy year of love.
Such as those writ ten when wild dogs weep
thickets of cat’s claw
ruin your favorite jeans.
We are full of lovely pieces
taken for granted like bribes: