Poetry for Strangers: Fuselage

the case

the only evidence we have to go on is this aged stamp collection
the detective sighed stealing herself against dank misdirection

slicing the pomegranates of illtimed truth the chef could determine
the uneasy alibis of suspects skulking in shadows like vermin

we checked the fuselage for misfires said the forensic mechanic
nothing untoward or alarming that could spark a panic

youre on the wrong track croaked the grinning mendicant
the clerk at the perfume store is not innocent

clues scattered like stubbed out cigarettes across the asphalt
charting counterfactuals became the way of shaking fault

the mystics of bath gathered up their obis and waged meditative war
on the nattering hydras and pests of unmindful folklore

behold this chestnut leaf and its atomic coherence
chasing doubts trembles with bright concurrence

sizzling in the woks basin was ginger onions and a sliver of mandrake
the meaning of it all is captured in careful preparation of pepper steak

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