Blister grids braid imploring palms
             as alleged wickeds spit in their felonious skillet.
   Reptiles dance to cubicle monks, their square fugues, rejected demigods,
   grinding down harpsichord strings in cloister.
               Grandma’s here.
               You thought you saw drifting screens, silk veils,
black-licorice lace clouds perimeter-pacing. Mistaken, you watch amphibian flames
stick sugary paws up rusty iron walls with superstitious calm.

     Contemplative moments, salt and pepper debates,
     leave messes like romance’s merciless side effects.
      No matter which brand of battery you’re eating,
      all schools lacking thought taste similar:
          resistant curds purging upward,
          beasts hiding in a forest of thimbles.