Fear Does Not Carry a Transponder

our subsystems have hasteful forgery with pipers’s wings
an incredible etymologocal subaltern evening fair with pretzels
cotton candy, and New York pizza, with a wish
for lost soldier regret clippings like morsel tail fins

doctors notice these kinds of things said the squirrel
to the champion fighter, in the ring with his mother
over the last present he gave her, it was not what she wanted
it was never what she wanted, he was not what she wanted
just a stolen marshmallow crop from Sunday’s harvest

he has talked to God,
God found him in the midst of his discomfort
like a swarm of bees engrossed in the calculations,
the dogma spirals til Tuesday
when we will forget the Monday oblong dawn