Wedged between two planks in a wine cask.
Rundlet, hogshead, or tun,
It does not matter. She is there
And I love her for it. Hate her
The morning after.

She lends plainness and comfort
In block letters.
The store calls her hot food
Which is a thing if you have never had
A family banquet
And are used to quick wins
As you look for more practical words
For warmth.

She is one of few ties—
Sometimes you do better without
Vermin in the garden—

Yet sanguine in nature.
She disapproves of disappearing acts but
Merrily straddles ley lines
That no one has seen.

She shies away from those with
The confidence
That is just and fair but

Encircles an old man,
Skin melanin high,
Moles multiplying,
To disappear. He sits on a plastic bucket,
Listens to AM radio. That is also
A thing.
At his feet, a box behind the times
Warbles crisp, analog folk notes. Wives and
War in Spanish.

Distance is kept, though, for
My daunting zen zone is bound by chains.
Is the strongest link in a chain.
Is a chain mail coat.
As cold and irresistible as my silence.
The two, siblings.

According to the teachings I am given
While in her mouth, we have let (unintelligible)
Do more
Than hse was ever intended to do.
End intermission.

She leads me to the device every day.
I refuse to apologize for the toxic waste
Despite their expectations of me
Not being poisoned.

My zen zone loves axxxxxxxxxxn.
Traditionally stable,
She skips, sags, and seethes
Upon being criticized
Because a black canvas at the Mo
Is never.

Cue the band and the gavel
And I am left to clean away the rust
Covering her axle brought on by
Other people’s machinations.

At home

She makes fun of what
The word
Is meant to mean.

She takes on the aspect of a miracle.
A page turns—
The book heavy with eager kink clashing
Against eager fingers—
And does not tear. A battle

By the same measure,
She gains a—yes,
A sigh, tops,
When a marriage does not
At the turn of five or ten.

Or when a can opener’s blade does not dull
And keeps on
Opening cans.

My zen zone hates autobiographies
And reference letters but that button
Atop the man’s box
To be //click click// pushed,
A spring-loaded mechanism to bring about
Songs on tape. Truly
A wonder
My zen zone longs for

As my zen zone asks me if I am, too,
Too late. Like the man
On amplitude modulation.

My zen zone is not of the belief
That every ♢ shines equal.
We have thieves and advertisements
To thank for that.

She knows we will never revolt
Against the aggressor. It takes years
For a tactician to formulate at least
One effective plan and
We are, in fact, used to quick wins and
A hot meal. Hence, unacceptable

She helps me find my footing.
This reflection has never been
A successful acrobat within mirrors,
Convex or otherwise,
Because I have never had
Perfect skin.

Does the assistant in that tiny doctor’s office have one?

My zen zone has a pair, unlike the alphabet.
Unlike the alphabet
There is a chance she will segue
Not into possibilities
But rather a deep, egregious
Sleep. Adequately.