The stars are trumpeting and I am the young mouse.
Living in the house of two mittens.
I shrive an ambrosia of lead, pickles,
beryllium, and dolls’ eyes. Want a taste?
You walk by my office, I offer
a trickle, you decline. Latinate verbs
come unheeded around my mouth.
Spleenic gestures, the test of faith,
rupture in the telling.
I believe you won’t eat me if I offer
to goodnight everything,
every night, indefinitely.
Something whispers Hush,
the attack is over, words have flown
to bring shade and cover. Trannyshack
three is still on schedule: I’ll tape it
for you
to your window. And bears
are dancing on little red planets,
and princes are prancing in red
bomber jackets.
I tripped over my own inadequacies.
They told me I was little and hung.
Arbors rung with lust
green the end.
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