That day the magpies wore boutanierres. The trees sweet with mapling. Every train station
full of joy and broken-necked violins, open to anyone
the curve and cry, the fractured singing
but you'll have to fill in the gaps.  I'm postmodern.
I'd like to po-mo down your tender buttons, run pell mell over your naked truths
I'm tired and can't stomach artificial sweeteners
but instead I'll probably cry and wish the moon will give enough light for
drinking you up off the surface of that tricky river that brought us here, and you?
Well, I'm Cyndi Lauper. I'm Boris Vallejo. I'm Mitt Romney. I'm Sir Alec Guiness.
And if you're ashimmer with my various identities, it's Tuesday and prime rib and gratitude
and the tension that has built up in my wrists.  What
I need is release, spirit in a jar, a cloud congealed in the well. What I have
doesn't fit in a sock or in
the rolled-up toothpaste tube.  In fact, to be honest
I stopped brushing for that reason.  Too many ghosts
in the medicine cabinet. And so much
depends upon the time of day when you try the math equation
we solve for y then nothing, then less or more. What's greater than that
leaves nothing to be desired, really, except for what's been solved in the equation itself.