His Tongue Is a Hyperbole
in a Borrowed Conceit

To observe the cavalcade
of crooning doves through
eyes of bargain absinthe,
he is lured back to the lot
of esoteric nonsense that
splays with licks in fewer
needs.

Where his tongue is only
a hyperbole in a borrowed
conceit, words tell stories
concentrated in a stutter of
mind, cuffing spastic notes
in the air like a woodpecker.

In the arcs of this summer
rain, his is the face taxed by
self-wariness, an involuntary
machine of failed calibration,
trucking in from wrong exit,
where the track back is long,
and skeleton-charred.