After the step I assumed
was last was another.
One explains
the sum of color.
Deciduous images
smuggled from sleep.
Now of these
two, pick one, and from
these four, pick three,
says the cuck.
In quicksand—as
with trompe l’oeil—
slapstick chucks peril. Breathe
through your tongue.
We’ve been here before,
you don’t know it yet.
You, me, plankton
protein whipped
by the storm
to the shore.
