roy herndon smith
the child cries, “beware
the gobbledygook mincing
flesh to abstract bits
staccato rhythms
of atomistic objects
without melodies
‘it’s a long way to
tipperary,’ and molly
‘drove … silly with love’
the jabberwock stalks
you in london’s streets of gold
stay, and you’ll be caught
chopped up and baked in
a pie, a dainty dish to
set before a king”
dust 