it becomes scarves or hankies or dreams or
scars—adrift one scream as bothered or feudal.
it
might hurt to cherish wit tribes of
axioms.
or to perish sweet holy
pain.
or tender souls such basements.
to
giggle a little looking nonsense
too
closely, at haunted hut at hellish
havens.
by vinegar wine, but
relished
in essence, to have kissed
reneging
deaths. those ants in me if
they
nibble arc, I might relight our
damages.
ashes or trays or cups or
ice
mixed tragically. watching
larger
snails or bugs or mantis eyes.
after
Betty Boop or Teresa or Kelly
our wounded souls knitting
settees.
