Without empathizing yourself, our self-
regard ran speedtraps.  I was a blast
so sheer to gather, a needing that ran 
odd, the saner blended thread-bare with 
popular, superimposed from noting nothing 
remands a second empathizing. For

Our babies started to watch. So as if 
of sheer effort these were the bass 
simulcasts to seem porous, bending light 
on the end table.  

And when that ran a fever... maverick to 
the ex-sun..... I got cluttered with secrecy.
A toss examiner.
Blinded. Or blindfolded.

Volume One Index
The East Village Poetry Web
Jack Kimball