everyone is telling the truth all of the time
While the rim of the spirit level is rising bent,
red dreams feed the moon-goggled fire ants mounding in our basement,
their pestilence bound into a conniption of spores,
taking their chances in a sea of withered crust.
With no directions asked
& only murmurs to keep them gauging away at a dawning parole,
the frozen hoists of change dampen my bulwark,
leaving me to surge past blind spots
into the cusps of a bird's eye view.
