The Last Supper

An interlude:

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

for master;

or when,

thickets of cat’s claw

ruin your favorite jeans.

We are full of lovely pieces

taken for granted like bribes:

some times.


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