by Steven J. Serafiani
let the ills get carried away all
the ills carry themselves away.
fear none. pressed gently in a
cabernet cloth mixed in heedy
warmth. highlands of father and
mother warmth. lap white crescents
against algae slip; the favorable
wooshing that washes over like
milked serene you the king you
the queen of all that exists when
eyes close and ills dim.