In Hot Company

Loops lever letters into fetters,
fritters untried, well-fried,

Panamanian in the sense 
of a sovereignty, a canal

graveyard with headless
stones marking the inter

continental division for 
globule commerce, a sand-

hearted money-friction, 
burning the bunker fuel

to prove to the layers below
space and above the hounds

that the foxes are still in 
the hence-house, looping

futures contracts with the
signatures of all the false

personhood of a corporation
in heat.