Nigh horizontal plumbing and
obtuse gravity brew
stagnant soup between
my ellipsoidal hovel and
other ellipsoidal hovels
Why, I am chef of a realm!
A chef who
harvests undulating
fronds sprung from
arcked footpaths caked with
reconstituted slime.
Steam and brume waft
like typewritten
smoke between
ellipsoidal hovels.
Delight for one is infection for an other!
Cushions await
ends of
forgotten epochs or
days, stony like
loves left in
cavernous larders.
Pneumatic drills pound
dreams or
it may be residual fumes. Yet - in
one ellipsoidal hovel -
a mote in
the bestial, terrestrial web -
dripping figures, bent
obtuse like conduits, slave
to fashion a drain.