Boughs, big ones, on the rust belt’s ley
lines’ lahar hold carpet what’s at eye-
level. What is is as simple as the datum ants
draw. And as if by chance, what was
is less and is an allision with the tenon tongue
set well. Total molar mass in the chorus,
I am your sweet dauphin installation
wizard honey napping under perindens,
splayable—my autotune angel,
my fungal inflection—an nth degree variable
you caught in the symbol you carved on the door
you cut from the tree from your dream.
— S.G. Mallett is the author of Disparate Logoi (Alien Buddha Press). Publications with Bruiser, Dreich, Heavy Feather Review, and more. @bathful on twitter.