They were flat gangsters:
eloquent but apocryphal,
a side step in the beehive

As plated futurists
lay vacant to daily apologies,
these antennaed antidotes
flew as witches,
anointing kitchen herbs
on quartz belltowers
raised by evangelical termites

Lords of silk lovers
blessed by blue necked
goddesses of the water,
the marina lay in plane crash sight
of their fraudulent dolce minuets

But who’s to question the
flickering eyes, steady wings
of seers in yellow jackets?

(much thanks to Elizabeth Hurst, Ed Mycue, Tony Tepper and Gerry Fleming)