He think it’s unhealthy to go punching moons,
including his own tempting satellite,
to collect its dust to encrust
on a face for Saturday night
to steal only for a crescent,
some of that vamp persona.

A moon walk, each harried step
like a misguided telephone call,
only one, you exaggerate the number of.

You count my troubles
by the marks on my areola–
this feeling creeps a bit;
the corset putting a strain on my heart.

But then you can sing to me
a lullaby, an alibi, an art.

You can decorate my troubles
with the parts of a flamboyant gladiola;
its collection of jaune you intone
with the March time harp,
little snippets of harmony
trinkets tingling my funny bones.


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