She puts her breasts close to me. They are naught.
Bevels in a trodden velvet ironing board,
& she puts my hands on them. I press at them like a button
I am committing her to song.
Rampage over what may truly, occasionally,
be called the sacred salutation. Ripples.
Crying spells, doubt, while I despise her,
I smile & encourage her. Septic animal, yearning.
How appalling this leadening of wooke.
How magnets cannot erect a filter with two blunt,
dumb paws & the speed of surrogates ,
the gaps left to grist breath between friends of family & the friends of work.
How mute it leaves a fine drip, who hoped only to lift his weight & stand.
I will not seek an Aidu, but I simply say to say,
because I hope it will take the edge of the Aungil.
What a necktie it is, spiked and sharpened and ready
against the will esteemed correctly to the incorrect source of all things.
She would put it down to Bedouin astrology, the Anna.
The hidden eighth planet called dragon.
The twenty eight lunar mansions. Her predictions!
All she says to the meek is that they ask that he not turn his face against them.