Anne Becker

By afternoon you’ll get articulate
with a heavy counterfeit hand
soon stand on soap boxes made of remolded wax poetic print news
sped-read in the morning with a cup of instant coffee and a watery day-old rosé
By evening you’ll flicker between soppy, obsequious and scrappy
an unsound candle unsure of itself and its voice’s light span
When the sunset shimmies out if its last pretenses of coyness
smell, see, touch salty strands manifest
superstrata of collated invocation
not your lay-prophet bossiness, haught, nor hypersaline streams can budge or smudge the milieu.
Disinterested in your shifty, soak’donned affect,
o’er our comprehension’s horizon, the sun (complimentary)
will brandish a brazen bonne nuit plume
with or without Babble