Born of a union of kingdom and mule.
Not even tumours could rule her.
By explosive reversal, amid shouts of “Backfire away,”
she vaults—out of the poorest postal code.
None of us could remember the last time
that thing had had a flame in it.
The entire east side could have been saved
with the amount they spent on cuts.
By axiology of ax.
The land assumed an orange-yellow cast:
—flicker of a letter,
thin reed/cored ‘d ’;
how tomb and womb are cognates.
Since each of the assaults had been in vein—
vain would be a typo,
hovering in a flurry of white on the incline.
Destined to live yet not yet recommended to earth.