Give me the 2-foot aphasic Jesus,
I crave the lobotomy of lawn--
that beer-tale 'smatter of urbana
squirreled in amongst oaks and hydrangea.
I'll prune to the roots of my celibate
store card and brandish the plastic; abandon
this dog-winter ague in favor of banquets,
the thrall of the Chaminade rose.
Then bathtub bisque porcelain
Mary shall sing
from the depths of her tangerine grotto;
(she's blotto, you know)--
the suburban rye stone queen
adored by spore lichen,