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THE HAPPY POEMS

The word exactly comes through the speaker
Who is up on a paraffin embankment. He has set up an expectation
Out of playing cards? not exactly,

He is modifying. A music of waking up in public
Would be a sad music indeed, but what are the happy poems
That crowd this caffeinating spectacle,

TKO-ing the debit card sense of spinach
In your teeth, a lowgrade shyness the constant invocation
Of doubt and suspicion installs no charge.

O panicked measurer, the heat you make
Melts the mountain. This happiness conditions the air,
Filling the room with television light. Take, chill.