You are a basket of eyelashes,
a pink lobe wrapped in dirty blind satin,
golden onion skin roasted shoulderblades
and a fervent shower of dust perfume
in 3 fog-weighted bedrooms. But.

If you have (outside pink) a servant, to discard him,
completely on my chest, a puppy,
push gently aside his cloth-blunted claws
delirious with sutures, his hanging lower eyelids,
his whitely mohawked chest,
will melt into my face like a summer stereo. In code for.

And the picnic will resume next to the highway
until the hanging places are filled with plums,
and the napkins bones and berries hovering in the air
will find bliss of fuzzy hands, clay pillows
and a whisper of Olivia, tired enough
to love a ragged man, hunting for a bleached outline
in the mountainous power outage. I love you.