The Dodos of Espionage

R. Tristan DeWitt

Twist work sounds the worried cry of middle age.
An equation seems to govern these
Roads with their roses and billboards.

I gesture in nickel-plated blessings
Blown against a blank screen.
Eventually, we floored it just
To get somewhere beyond the fork.

A safe house—freckles and fresh fur.
How do you listen? We are the baseline
For innovations in shame.