The Operator's Hostage

Night is for ears.
We are prone, and smitten to spontaneity.
I read an essay delineating the uneasy invention of erasers.
Crepuscular light has the aspect of mint jelly.
A spare trombonissimo diminishes to one long caw.
A grain of grit escapes the gears.
Our Godmother hopes we attend the Ball.
The cat dips her antennae into the milk when she sips.
The sky uses some clever methods to keep us on track.
We all look pretty much the same when we fall.
But I swear, I never received the grading rubric.
The fragment is part of the relief.
Finally, we tumble into the domino's pip.
Gather round Tiger, Radio Free America is on air.

by Peter Jay Shippy

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