is tight-lipped once again.
The smooth red ball is falling from your hand,
the pipe is warm again with coursing water.
The tiger diatribe is turgid
in the mucky palace moat.
The prince is frigid
and the course is slower,
here among the shelves in human space.
We're bowling pins afloat in soup,
deaf and gaping in the afternoon.
This is happytown,
a savory gel, living off the air.
Please hold my hand... we're dreaming
of a city filled with glass.
It's like cubbies filled with backpacks;
A smartwatch set to silent, a marimba,
a wooden barrel filling up with love—
it's kind of senioritis,
kind of like a Calder mobile in a
blown-out roadside diner,
the way we're sitting here as the
music's getting louder
and more Romantic. I can tell by your face
you're late for something,
a pedal buggy in the frozen park?
to bid on an estate sale in the sticks?
the motif from two seconds back will repeat;
I latch the gate behind me and hoist
the pack onto my shoulder.
I'll see you at the flower party in another timeline,
grinning like a puppy in the river.
I look behind, forlorn,
at the shining diamond in the hothouse.
The tigers are back,
a dozen of 'em,
forming a cult around the dynamo.
This should be over, but there's a model village
on the empty oyster shell.
I can't stop eating off of frisbees;
you convoke a varied route to failure,
to flaunt a halting knotted rope,
to meet again inside the ring of trust.
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