AGONY of society should be tempered by kind association, she muses.
FROCK, new, beautiful, sewn for weeks, distraction from the
SCARE of a ball: all those people, and who is a friend? All will
GRILL on her family’s decline. Or worse, coolly snub her.

QUAIL at rising tide, storm-hauled inundation, joined with—strange combination—
DRIER land, cracked and barren, sifted into dust.
GIVEN we, as grasshoppers scoffing winter, devour all in lust,
PLACE is no constant, infirm future no foundation.

PRONG one and two, new era’s moves—assign them signs:
GRAPH, knowledge harnessed for power of prediction.
WITCH, resupplying missing mystery by inventing spirits.
VOILA! Now deeply drink from wells of self and choice; the self-made do not pray to gods.

FULLY submerge into a beautiful aria from the stereo:
PURER moment, touch of transcendence. Then wafts over a
FISHY cooking smell from neighbors, followed by candidate’s jarring
KNOCK on front door. Maybe I need a stronger concept of beauty.