Returning to the conversation on braiding horse manes with cold hands, I lean heavy on the yard post

 
 

Inner Soul Honeycomb

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parade milk and baby’s sneeze in the parlor of vast epitomes, bobbi-pins populate hay bales in the time of conquerable berries and invisible ballistics of sighs and held notes by the punch bowl, ponytails deftly constructed sotto voce in math class, blue skirts caught in Cadillac doors, porcelain roses with blinking bulbs singing village mystical to the moon in the aural stylings of Marilyn Monroe half a Quaalude to the costume room

the boozy math of love is a playful landing of forest feet quickly taking the space of our stare

but in the half-life of nascent affection defined as fondness I recall the collateral detritus left by The Lifting of the Mouths, and its life-sized mimetic occurrences: poorly executed suicides half complete and petal-bent on the bridge post, a torn tie broken steeple dove chase, a cowboy void of Cola, unsure of where he set his girl down

death by dry mouth in the basement of the wintergreen gum conclave

and I’ll admit I do enjoy the crimson creations we bend to because my hand has loosed a braid in reverence to the last lilac to touch the fence post, because I pout over an unraveled basket while a peripatetic sparrow builds her doomed Disneyland in the hair of a felon revisiting the hometown disco, because I’m fragile as a premature thorn violating a dew drop, alone and weightless when everyone abandons their wine to fold the corners of the corpse flower, and recite the alphabet of loose ribbons in tempest linguistics of gale and variable breezeways, a bullied apple core comes forward as the sole witness to the first set of cheekbones approaching the sound of a robin bumping into a dandelion in the shadow of a park bench and one hissing child, listen now for the incantations spelled by ingénues captivated by the floozy hallway stumble required to locate a misplaced plastic ash tray

nice kiss, you restless fugitive

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