a decent obsession

underneath his trenchcoat he was in possession of a bent quill he used it to tickle words out of his avaries of birds moon-eyed and sucker-punched they adored the dripping honey he spooned into their unworldly wide-open bills his avarice for swollen notoreity observed by the dark night-eyed hunters while he, unsuspecting, stalked newly commissioned clean and unmarked boxes with his know-it-all best bumbling holy-roller turns the nights are full of obsessed decent hunters lit matches with an arsenal of thoughts and a granary of words ready to burn Candide Diderot. ‘24