Cat Clyde Never Bent the Arrow

Pouring stars scatter at her feet
with division temples like grass frogs
token synthesis for globetrotting
parched royalty like a pelican dancing
as it flies / Along the cries of
storming gulls there is a
basement counter with her collected
dimes at trait eyeglasses /
Weather is leaning toward a scarred
cloud between the brow of God,
who said love ends in the streaming
of forgetful attitudes / Exeunt