From here and there, I can take
Ownership once more over a simple run-on
        Sentence. Notice the farmer peons
And their ruby-tonsil’d hymns, like the one
        About the boy who drowned
And went on living his festive life without
        Even one soul knowing better.

        Gradually, the rest of us, living on,
Still live on. And some of us meanwhile
        Even thrive, if we can employ
Such wanton words for clinical realities. 
        Thriving as we do, as we desire
By now, going on in such rocky areas,
        Getting a hold of ourselves as ourselves.

—Adam Fitzgerald, whose debut poetry collection, The Late Parade, is forthcoming in June. Follow him on Twitter (@HartCrane) and/or Tumblr.