A Chef Named Sous

You need a curfew need a flag to furl 

You need a body hinged to mind-prone lickety hop 

To spritz matchbook's historic staleness  

Into fresh caught light to show

The podge hitched to the hodge within

Non-random lane lines veering toward a destination

That negates pathways while brandishing 

Rigid thought as oxymoronic spree 

Of damage control to sprawl the status quo 

Suppressing fever frock in feathery pursuit 

Of what might fill the empty space   

As insects crawl across the warm spring screen 

The familiar metaphor for what reality might seem 

From faraway dimensions scattergrammed  

As viaducts conjoined in a symphonic Braille of throughways 

Pressuring advancement while cohabiting the known universe 

In a companionable breeze of smooth predictive surfaces 

With holes for breathing 

As the act of breathing 

Elevates as if to disappear