preternaturally perfect

Preternaturally Perfect

Could you ferret out crime sitting on the

invisible spot we’d missed right under the table

flashing overflights of the can, whose pressure seemed

of a tall, dignified-looking man in Army uniform,

his buttocks pressed against the tiled wall and

waving at everyone like they had something

in the environment to guide her to a particular person

beginning to crackle, and on the street two stories below

that black crow whose function was ultimately predicated

mumbled something with some semblance of gratitude

whose puns probe ancient fetid shafts and tunnels of truth

with a good chef and a group of entertainers who called themselves?