First Thing Poem by Bill Berkson

Drown on all fours
Pennies from a box flood the frump market
Blasts of nacre, triage under weather's speckled pool

The idée fixe never happens yet can't be ignored
Still the moon is half full?
Speak for yourself with your hands up

The search is on
Search and destroy, if you will
Elimination starting with a lit fuse

Vacuumed anon
Your pleasure is the lee shore
Thunder smites the tundra's paw

This should be memorable
Legs whited out
The runners advance