Virus Poem by Pierre Rausch

Virus (in memory of M Scott Johnson)
Fumble's like a belbuoy over gum
Without being forced over gun
But this stalward statue
The fern lay seed on the black bill
Wildshake of muffle-toed tap
After all ceremony, mule bray
Grave's foot, blinds toward down lids
In maillot
Everyone swathed up in fur
Migid tap happily of the backlot
You see the bride if you stoop down?
You entread now
From the quivering of her shoulders
There had been anything but love
Agencies in which he kept Pharao secrets
That village of the Trafalgar hound
When we lay nude on the dissecting table
What you are is fifty percent
Come, let us examine ourselves among abandoned children
What you have is fifty percent
That breaks judgement to the judgment
You stand up, alone in cloud
Though this, for her, is a blind image
The parched worlds
Though this, for her, is an image blinded
Ashine of her broken toy, virtue to disease
It was probably only a resemblance
Virtue to service that her tongued disease
Threadbare, need to druids