of high noon, a flipflop’s plan gone awry.
Considering the topheavy imperium that makes
a madhouse clairvoyant, there’s an argument
for aging. Like a stopwatch dropped
from the lowest berth on a yacht, nothing
slips by without feigning time, without clocking
a flounder, or visualizing Pensacola,
its fronded harmonies, the frondeur’s
fronds. You are my hip replacement, my
corrective laser; you’re the aneurysm that never
arrives, the twilight of late parties, the
dance floor that lets them be. You silver
all occasions with silvered sanity until the sash
is unsnared and flipflops to earlier parties..
-- Star Black