work in progress

  Codger, old maid or bone-dry instep, a stagnant silence over cloud Interior remains sneaking under—yes, me, yes, my polite Infertility—uncooked acedia, never invulnerable frost Protects a circle-bare sky or dank reverie of useless yttrium Yields free under these asses, cool, must remain. *here, an inversion is a poetic exercise in which one takes a poem…