upon a finger made of ink
paperweights
to cotton
palatial
overtures
so much an untrained man
scissoring papier-mâché
laughing
under-breath
rolling
my tumbleweed
too great in mischief, heaving.
the folks afar, near, and aloof,
aren’t innocent. the paradox of the person; to fret uneasiness, involved in
debilitation—as to pay homage to ripened desecrations.
an oiled body, a drier womb,
something needs to be felt on its insides: warmth, as a channel, a need for
inflection—in voice, tone, to sense sincerity.
so much a man in age,
encouraged to singsong,
moved by opera,
cursed to remain callous.
