Soraya 36.

Anis Shivani

Cheat grass where the colorists among the

beau monde beat back the lone surviving pieta

of me holding you like a prosecuting infant,

Soraya, echoes spondaic theanthropy,

the truth condition under which I wait up

for the Wagner tuba to wail around air-

raids. (The wave state lighting the wagon

train might as well be Wahhabis on strike.)

Yokozuna burst open their loanwords at

the moment when isomorphic hard drives

freeze along the frontage of our septal

matrilineality. I swear upon the codpiece,

Soraya, to snuff the establishment Essenes

whose ecbolic eclogues throb with courtesy.

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