You belong in an odd vestibule.
The sheen of shoehorns dangling
above the mantelpiece. Or opera style gloves
adorned with tiny buttons. Or child’s safety scissors.
The way you used to hold them
so wrongly. The way you so strongly adore
the slightly obsolete. Oh lopsided embrace
of obscure themes. Sweetly bumbling
across the page, your cursive sways small
and cryptic. Reckless t(s). I(s) looking downright reclusive.
You call this theme Haphazard Chandelier.
You call this theme Choking Hazard
adorned with tiny buttons, snipped off
and lobbed down unsuspecting throats.
Festooned with curlicues, irregular verbs, dangling
bee stingers drip raw honey; hover
and plunge into unsuspecting throats.
Tracheal buzz. Such gorgeous anemones bloat
under your tongue. Sweetly fumbling
above the mantelpiece. The metal V(s) an orchestra
of robot bird wings. Oh lopsided sheen.
You belong in a fuzzy intermezzo that floats.
You flirt with opera gloves that may be empty,
but at least they boast five finger-shapes
if nobody else will hold your hand;
if nobody else will implant your spine with tiny honeycombs.
You call this theme Fantastic Seamstress.
You call this theme Fanciful Ingress.
You call this theme The Sticky Swarm
About to Burst Out My Neck.
Oh small stripes and serrated legs and pollination
of tongue anemones. Cryptic cursive flights
and flowery crash landings. Crushed gloves.
Sticky sweet buzz pouring out your gorgeous mouth.
