My baroque hair is deflating.
A chef's failed marriage; a paper airplane's long love affair with
being the opposite of itself and other airplanes
it constantly struggled with self image, and gravity.
the glacial loneliness of lungs that return words whitely clouding the wind
It could be worse.
we could wear out the mukluks, the bearskin rug, our welcome
We could get real sleepy and curl up by a tree
or outside the Mongolian restaurant, a heaven of parking lots
basking in the distant sun
in a sun's distance from always, we cast shadows: dinosaurs, donkeys, ducks
can have severed belongings
which belong to the severity of severance
my lovely scar, o, my heartsick delight
gabba gabba hey!