Untag the toes on the wall of placements
either gained through fraud or won with dread fear
of losing one's head in musty basements
with mold and death imperceptibly near:
Five figures, five times, down the same swift chute,
a glistening slide, warm from the slick sun;
a backside burn, and the brain doesn't pute;
it just falls inside itself, like a battle-stained pun:
Friction is fictive; the backslide falls flat
on the sandy pit of youth, first face down;
then the moment of meaning: sandy tears
blocking sun from those eyes that scrape the ground:
Pushing fifty in a vision of hope?
Just clip five toes and laugh at the joke. Dope.

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