Headmaster's -- Thomas Fink

ice-wand airbrushing bellicose sobriety onto converging
opera underworld: they seethe, grub for a

tumor tuck. According to a Sangria viewfinder
riveting its beet-brinked pulp sentry, sunlight
isn't thick. Peasant-tanned blueblood tornado torpor

occasioned by barometric chestnut klaxons may temporarily
encourage some banksmith to sponge off a
woolen election mill. We are all stairs.
We just line up differently. Mildewed torpedo

in tungsten cape boinks ocean-bodied crackerbarrel
working to camouflage the unsightly. Shut doom
tight. Not an exit. We need a
new one at home. Mine fell apart.
We'll shore your barbed whines with our
beach-directed neighbors who are also cornered.

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