In the Wormhole
  Roland Prevost

Most days, he's planted. Buried on purpose
up to his neck. To protest restrictions
on artistic freedom. His Oilslick rants
fancy themselves walking on water.
Maybe if it rains, this potted man will bloom.

Behind his occult machinery, a helium blowfish
puffs up. A bored public has better places to be.
Their show of affection leaves him vulnerable.
In memoriam, he sits buried here, Trenchant.
His tombstone head speaks, now mostly to itself.

The sun falls low, the cameras leave.
Someone will have to dig him up again.
Go for a dinner of slow-mo recaps.
Dine on the chef's possibly poison fish.
The Job of protest, crueller than imagined.

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