Snow is a vagabond oat, dear.
It permeates winter: this wandertime
stooge who'll traipse, come to town-- thin
vanity semi-schooled, fluorishing
We'll call it shock-- the toxic
accretion of some comic pain. Your hand
is a sandwich for children
On your sad knees!
The meter slows-- hammer on tarmac.
Decant the old words, crack
one rust-colored fuse. I've licked
the sparse wine from the glass-stem
in what you
laughingly called a silk suit--
Bus stop posing.
When were you radiant, angel?
What stray cull stillbore you? You cradle
thin bowls. Lend me one,
Danaud, I'm bailing; I'm bound
to your side by a stone.
Come, come aerie!
Take flight to your reason-filled haven.
Perfection comes ordained: it's sanity, rouged
by the miracle images kept of ourselves,
untarnished by parallax cues.
Too, too cozy.
Stop bleeding feng-shui on my table.
I take back my life. I have no wish to be your
white-coated gentleman of needles and plums,
tick tick tock