Robert Verdon, #13, Modern Times

I launder the breeze,

jail it in a jar

and sell it on —

capitalism coddles us

like a carp’s lips

as I clean up.

My enemies are too busy

bolting for the windmill safety

of the Middle Ages

to do much about it.

Mould, I am told,

grows in bread

before it blooms —

my products are too rarefied

for any of that shit.