Roman

Dearthquake

Adornments conform to a seismic platinum
shaken, not whirred, as addiction laudanums

passing off old nouns for verbs, well to the 
south of the Oregon Fail. The mouth of our

shiver holds teeth for the next Quaker, silently
wondering if the shakers would have a capital

S, should their procreation not demurred. My
face blurs, traces of nose in the bouquet, a tannin

helping itself to the dwelling place where my
mind shelters from the calm beyond my storm.