"Ataraxia"

Occupy people and layout
whatever is left, is less amiss
mass of what isn’t
top shelf, chief.
Inside and out,
out, out, and about
what else came forth?
Or what else is left?
Binky, bulky baby bottles
and chop shots from tiny
kittens: cat-astrophic.
Come about.
Come along, little darling;
flying to misty milky ways
wilding about whosits
and whatnots.
Lot is lost suffocation,
a suffix.
Who’s the king?
That’s him over there,
the one with the crown.
And the seeds planting
about the garden
that were rapports
where mothers purr
left about strewn cloth.
She’s little in mass,
nightly grown in strength,
and filthy about the house;
but we love her with
what’s left:
Ataraxia;

We names herz

ataraxia.