—perfected 
as Sqecial Media 
dead stock practically 
marinated for years in 
twiddling webs of enlivening 
incense clung for months
beneath dog-eared 
corners you daily
neglect to rectify,
hoping those 
corners folded,
pointing out some
plain passage, dare
might right the path—
the trail head threaded 
or whipstitched over these
beetling shreds of something,
unplumbably, sandalwood, 
opium, maybe, at least, what
incense companies often suggest
should be opium smoldering free
from a stick, a splinter, a sprig,
some bamboo splint picked
out of a panda’s teeth, you know
that bamboo‘s not too good
for them really, as much as the sun-
fish just eats jellyfish, just for the
taste of it maybe dasani suggests
—the trail left, lingering over some
mold-choked sill you’re still too 
coldly opposed to opening, maybe 
for fear of the scent, or the spoor,
or what’s more than mere snickered 
suggestion gravely, savored, expressly                              
                    escaping—