Percussion clashes with flattery
point blank and home driven
into whys and wilderness
drawing blanks, while
measly wings vibrate deeply
forming flutter powered pirouettes.
It’s all nonsense;
a road is named for a martyr
a sycophant names a star.
Swirling heat splinters skyward
in crimson twists, rich as roses
summer-mad, watching appetites
mirrored in the basin of a vessel
hungry for diversion
and content with perfunction.