The day it mellowed out
About the houses cobweb attic
And the artsy market floor,
The bore was
Terrifying.
The day it telephoned out
And you with him
That electronic Avon-lady day,
I would have to say
Wounds with blame.
But hey, it's not time
Crying over spilled milk,
A silk that rapes times curves,
The slur was only clockwork
Hopefully not soul-like
The fright of light.
Night! Tickle the objects.
I protest this surface.
I know of infinite alleyways,
All possibilities
For the dead lovers
And living leavers
Heave me here.
But there was fine,
Watermelon Midwestern rinds
And Oklahoma dreams
Of Dorthyesque birch trees
And seeds of honey
Stinging bees.
Please,
Find me a clock,
With many springs,
That winds every way.
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