Monday, November 1

Burnish the petal and stare sharply
towards the bookstacks.

Languish starry clothespins.

Storm lavish trombones
with clawed villages.

Clone oysters in the park.
Steal a juxtaposition.
It is role playing your iguana
with sweetened scales.

Spool pigeons in a basket on my lap.
                                                                          The top hat glances in my direction.
                                          India, croquet my whisper.

The motif is a soccer coach.
He fringes brandy glasses
with Pacific spoons,
but he cannot spark me,
as I chat with a quiche
over threaded shackles.

They are flower spinners
on a pottery wheel, easing
graphite towards my hand.

I explode nail polish on your coffee table.
                                                                        A purple stereotype
                                                             breathes Artemis,
surely enough to ignite
the parlor’s breath.

It breathes grimy
clothespins that cling
to my shoulder.
                                       You hand-craft the moon.
                                                                            Starlight, spoon towards me.
                                                                                              Flock my voices.