What Writs

The feast is wordsome
a hand sown key plink
girded by specificity:
purple, salient, serif,
a clear middle seen
from the inside
where the tones glide
to bake an English mitten

Toasted three syllable sentences:
   who are we
   when is death
   why ask me
determine the face
of a zoomed in tight nose
whose features can hear
every hammer clang

Middle morning sips a nap
to quench the thirsty tired
given a statue libertine
to celebrate contrarian ethics:
not this
not that
neither of those