one more: so she might

Stull called to her mulch &
the response was snappy
all froze up inside
times wuz caramelizin' all
up and down the avenue
we slip by the slippin' days in
our slippery ways
we canonize the duckery
quacking in our boots
the wood sends ripples
down the line
treadmilling the dance classes
of our native climes
it matters not the vagueness
of your possibilities
lines read between yield
all our fetid humidities
to the lingering rhymes:
fading embers fade
in the last day's
grooving endive, she don't
know betta, so she might
as well bring the feast
all round the playgrounds
close behind
the vision flatlines
the futures curdle
the rest is
all you ever want to know, so
claim it, revile it, praise it,
send it down to Goodwill
misery & blue
tunnels till all our days
is true.

[Thanks - apologies? - to Dylan and the leggy Michigan poet.]