I know about the other room.
Daisy-cutter kissing wolf spider sliding
eggs into a cast iron pan.
Except for you, and you.
Good morning, sunshine.
Touch the white of his back, the coldest
I know halogen blue nipples,
calumet isnt a city,
the wind doesnt chime.
Tua Pulchra Puella
A man walks into a bar and says
to the waitress, Tua pulchra
puella. Slow, very slow. And
the waitress stares at him, just
stares at him. Because she knows
it isnt true. The weight of the language
is more than her waitress arms can bear.
But the man is flapping, frantically
flapping, on the head of a pin. No
angel, no wings, losing balance, not
sure where to begin. The waitress falls
over the horizon, an orbit, and circles
back again. The man quickly opens
his hand. Im holding five copper pennies,
he says, then suddenly folds his palm.
What is the forbidden city, she asks
him, and when can we go again.