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Enter (Catalyst) Here

Ann M. Fine

In the following, an errant agent of redistribution
was flummoxed by writing games, in affect, supined as a page
to the very planetary evening after all. Ours is
an agent betrayed (by god) but hidden to grade his moon
which is all of our, by the way, moon; below from which
he shot (for wild game) / fingerfully
signing an architecture single handedly
/ in (what like) paper pajamas he had. Sufficely, this
annoyed agent’s false teachers, who not rather agreeing thought
they detected an awful sorrow how agent bluely noted
his decorous weapon / of a scarce so / and so seemingly this
denuded agent’s splurging glow—however really lovely faced up.
These significant clues told his eyes his heart.
Upon once shorn time shone from head to total feeling
(aces) acing to be one’s apple, lip, or all append from endless white stars;
Our beloved agent human’d terribly still in no clothes
till modesty of efforting drug, wanting, besotly smalled
some of him / until our summing agent
knew enough to smother the no-longer -(I)
and placate random celestial bodies now opulently
careened on the scene; a worthy embarking
(on what?) On this our agent correctly reflected:
how not-walls of clay suns and or pooling shadows in the spa
can tailor-fog out one’s whimpering bliss;
the clock of most-of-all self winding.
This is how the night sky became a canon of his character;
And how, above all, he learned from his copious will
how he could keep; a captive to the moon.

Ann Fine

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