It’s so _____ no one can ________ much without
tiring of the __________. Twister put you in

shapes as a child you could only dream
your main squeeze into as a grounded teen.

Cross words from a boss or authority
figure might make you unspool, feel small, punk

like sick hiding dogs or little Johnny
Rotten. Clues buried in the code of fat

angular acrostics dangle supper,
wet wormy lures to lurking muskie. Air

waffling back and forth in a bass drum tween
backbeats knows not what it wants to be till

the next kick tells it, explaining intent
and thumping it boldly into the world

of analog, sine wave and scribble. Meat
cut from the brisket of your grandmother

might provide a partial answer to this
question of character. Flaming giraffes

suggest another approach. White paint thickly
scumbled and scraped gives up conquered colors

only after intensive interrogation
and light torture: mint, moss, saffron, signal

red, sea foam. Use blanks like sun X-rays
empty days. Try the smooth fox terrier.

Now try sassafras. Or: __________ the mother
who would rob choice of all its gravy, boats

their confused and occasional winds, forms
the urge to fill themselves out, then change shape.