he pours out, his coctions
conned with too-cunning smile
from these gullible tips of wilting
pushed by a pouting posy.
Its bunched buds weep chartreuse then slink
off into the waited
years of welcoming swallows.
Their needle wings paired with calls pierce
the sky's purple-black bruise,
revealing light, stenciled clues
he sorely needs to fly himself
up to shivering heights.
Once shin-deep in substrata
routes flooding forth from badly zoomed
maps, his questions run
afoul. Ascot-wrapped but choked,
the relentless sinks to unhealthy
altitudes, and he falls
through stained ceiling of acid
nave where his fancy first took off.
— Francis Scudellari