Descend, distill,
season of the virus
approach in measure.
As for we fold what treasure,
too distinct to name.
Pulling obvious blame
thru yr teeth.
Where’d I learn
to straddle like that?
Living together
in the background noise,
we molt and pop.
The remote control loosens.
Now that’s a wonder,
idyllic in its pants,
into and into
the sweatshop haze.
Isn’t the air
a vibrant enough thing?
And yet…
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 