Tilt the Board

To wave on
coming broach the
tope with feeder
z ones be
clear of face,

watch full of
spacious under
penned Bermuda
in the squaline
sauce of pop
clipped sorghum baste

all tall configuredly
as haste makes
tone a gone
thing fingered to F#

you smooth your
way in to
a crowd
I shoulder this

I feast on
how inside the real
trade is midsummer
when the crooning

faults its way
to noon lone
pilgrims white of
shoulder when the room
stays full

the room so
full of you