The Sounds and the Flurry

The open iterations flower
in me, another annual's narrative
in which I first try to become
and then recuse
protagonism. 

To step back
does not an anti make.

I brewed my last plan
and it hatched before I
realized that it was 
an egg.

Rest or divide?
Conquest or deride?
Fission or fluoride?

Dichotomies grin at 
this
and die at the mere flight
of that. 

Pigs and other 
invertebrates.
Proper classifications.

Listing from trash to trash,
my self adds that space
to show that possession
is ten tenths of my paws.