The guttersnipe who labels our stone bombs ‘mushrooms’
forgets their gentlemanly girl-grassland poise –
which is unfazed by egg-shattering bolts
descending with trade-blankets of me,
speckling all with glazed gumbo glitter
along spines of Little Golden Books
A roaring radiance will unspool there
where hunched, concentrated meditations
can buck any 2-tired tourist’s name-calling
Mark them: Molding an unrobed metaphysics
they govern this talcum-powdered geocache
They will lure in the unwary to be their playthings
-Thomas E. Simmons
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