The block of houses disappears
into a cold pocket of air.
And the space it leaves
invites one to cram in all kinds
of minutiae: rocking chairs, spare tires,
pinwheels and wire hangers.
No item is too trivial, just so long
as triviality prevails. Then come
the shapely, sultry, seductive dancers
with their various veils, and suddenly,
nothing makes any sense.
With every movement,
they stir up the pensive emptiness
into a frenzy of flame.
Desire comes later in a big way.
If left unattended, it’ll grow into a grave.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 