Sometimes it craves a good slap and hug.
It’s summer and your top’s down.
It’s a filthy burden, but the oil’s just right.
Your latest edible art seems to be breeding. It seems to be smoking a basket of parts. It wants to sign your agreeable face and surface.
Your head used to be smaller and the weather larger. We don’t talk about the weather.
We saw grapes rivering the hillside and wanted to feed them We saw rivers.
We lived like that. Yard after yard of intense heat. A light toasting. With the top down.
We made fish sticks, so we ate fish sticks.
Our life is superb. It’s agreeably oiled and it’s nasty and filthy and wonderful. It doesn’t need any more oceans.
Sometimes it whistles and grapes. Sometimes it just grapes.
We saw trees. We saw a platypus chick annoying its mother in there where its thickest. We saw slick suits exchanging looks in the closet, the same look you gave me yesterday after fifty-three years of marriage.
Why don’t we try some of this on? It’s easy. There’s a trillion holes in the sky leased to a single universe.
The bright blood-rags sag softly from the roses. We’re puddled in cardigans like cold fat bowls of fuzzy curd. There’s a runt glacier descending.
Suddenly I’m about to walk right into your next life. Suddenly you’re about to whistle, lips all about and sighing, willing to and what about this and that.
You can achieve the best results by not removing the body parts, so I wear my listening-head with its brighter reception.
Sometimes it needs a tickle and pinch. It’s a tea I use to keep me awake when I’m sleeping. Sometimes just a sigh.