( via / via )

December on the Sun.

bothsidesing swavory
flesh-eating bacteria
pale cerulean pearshape
riddled poxwith sockeye

swasivious solvent
here to sub for near-miss
the death toll tilting
in the part-time rhyme scheme

one more cyber war-buick
shining wind-dredge sinus
one more terrible tap dance
amputees are seized with

Siwarha detected?

"Yet if it ever be your fate to write,
Let your Productions pass the strictest Hands,
Mine and your Father's, and not see the Light,
'Till Time and Care have ripen'd ev'ry Line.
What you keep by you, you may change and mend,
But words once spoke can never be recall'd."

—Horace, Ars Poetica 386-390 tr Roscommon 1743

Winter sun, waniand.