Dear Stan,

I have my own accent.

Tell me what you want it to be, Big Boy.

Tell me where you want it to go.

I darkread in my sucker voice
the warblings of your name.

The South? Denmark?
From Cleveland? Where’d you say you’re from?

Aloria. The place between your ears.

I call you something abbreviated in my head.

In my e-mail list? A name.

In my bed? A mane.

My long johns splotch with lampblack
from our whaling expedition.

We thought we’d bring in Language
but she was too enransomed. March.

We’ll get there at some semblance.

We’ll tie the trolleys down, create
an outstanding prick to bring
her down. Lips and tongue and throat.