In the republic of other things
when we live in a bathroom, weird issues
short out what sense orders for us.
Like a tired research assistant, you chose
to flap around, prompted by hunger, not
being sure that the crate of plums arrived.
Shoot it off the cover. A piece of the pie,
or action, will never flush early suspicions
of the nature of a cavity. There is another
problem with the census; sensory apparatus just
waiting to leave the tongue behind. The caveats,
God help ‘em, were by this time so deep
in denial the servants never saw them again,
or realized they were missing. How awkward
for the heralds involved, tweeting
still through late foliage. I said you were
probably right. What more can I do?