Improveras, I Heart Abandonment

I fond too late if the mother
and the father are ghostly
whorls. 9 Became a struggle
sleep when 8 seemed like mastery.
She, always, pentametric, labors.
Sometimes fails to aquify. I
never felt. But no doubt desperation.
Collate foliage into freezer
selections and greet a collie
sweeter. That made easy.
Return to the fond row
where too late your struggle sleep.
The waking interprets nothing but hunger.
Did the asher's urns arrive in
unison? In ingot robes I rove
false again.
This manicure is for your comfort.

Copyright © 2009 Dannyka Taylor All rights reserved
from Parthenon West Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission