By Jason Ward Boyte

Remedy chaos
With tabernacle glue.
Martini slants
     just as sticky

The lure of stasis,
We pour out into tiny puddles
To settle and congeal,
     becoming solid in a (spineless) way

The rainbow in the puddles of oil
Behind the Church of the Nazarene.
There’s gold there for the taking.

The soldier in uniform
Laughs in line,
A reflex.

The angles of his hair
(the smooth around the ears
and neck) suggest machine.

The butch cut
Of social gas, the
Flavor of pig
Is practical
     (like coupons)

Somewhere a boy spins a wheel
Of his own making down
A narrow dirt path

A plane flys above
With payload.