The sixth is the decennium of detachments
though at love’s door, there is concern
about emotional shrinkflation.
When unluck greets each loom
how does one weave the scrim for wayposts?
An ewer as a giver is a losing proposition.
Likewise, when ugliness underwrites
turns of travel, it matters little
if one is up with the lark,
or close to the desk at midnight.
The cracks on a close-up blow one away
from a bunny hop. Dithyrambic initiations
hike the expectations. To drum up defects
is the tune of the terrene: When speculations
are rife, there is room for sullenness.
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