broth.
bother my brother spoon feed innocence
both of us cry beneath quintet
of scurvy moon we need to shadow
how we are we need to cluster here.
the sacrosanctity eviscerates
the leavings and the work is frayed
again the work is salt
our land made sprinkles of binarity.
long lead wampum to draw headway
from our looming answers
to no questions at all.
we live in tribes we kilter
strands or coins of silver
fresh estate a jaunty kind
of live one will remand us
to our equals generosity to bear.
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