Jitterbug

Our funnel of thumbs (an amorous tuber) decanted frogs
for the head cheese of drug-induced twang. Is this
what you foresaw when we pummeled the rapture? Small print
boiled in spine? I have no thorax or plume, only pokeweed.

Jitterbug. I encoded your Juneberry script and stashed it
in parenthetical wiggles beneath my skin. Months later,
when the blacksuit asked about sunspots, I refused to confess:
they were knee deep in a fissure of context, unforeseeable.