Paper trophy—that
cuts that cuts that
cuts that cuts
that brands my XP
dry-skulled forehead
for what for what
for what for
that untuned urgent
grand piano
plucked a forte
‘plauding crowds are
worth some lint
a bunny dusted mopped
that floor—all wood—
and dry skin cells a blank-
et trampoline.
Horned yarn swords believe
the sound.
