hot rondo a’ la rien

i never do that

begin with a coda begging

hold me as you wrap it all

encompass me in the devil’s

signature while i body surf

the waves of achromatic

scales ascending with tidal

rage moving me beyond

three dimensions into a

realm where understanding

is exposed for its own

ignorance

(no amount of discipline

is left in the cupboard

filled with cans empty

of all but irony and a

picture she keeps

secret from herself)

a turtle practices yoga

in the wake of other futile

efforts to orient the soul

legs flailing amid the steady

eighths disproving gravity the

elevation of spirit in spite of

this miracle metastasizing

deadly patterns that travel

eternally

internally

(deciding to remain silent

she dons a mask of dire

complicity in the assault

upon the peace and quiet

the neighbor looks up at

the window as she packs

children off for the day

certain that all of the cans

which she possesses are

filled)