BRICOLAGE, #7621 BURNT RED

I want to come to you dancing,
one-legged on a rush of unprepared silk.
The hesitance of the travelling carpet:
unrolling my four-star tongue.

I want to pop out at you
from the depths of the bricolage
of a heart valve: sometimes red, sometimes blue;
all threatened glass revenue.

The ceiling, we grasp is sometimes ginger glass.
dripping on, disappointing the floor on;
the floor latticed with envy, is sometimes more.
Home is the silvered bore.

I want to slip you something round and flat
composed of the compulsion to act,
a medicine seed with hard, angelic coating.
A formulaic gloating: “Hey, look who I’ve got.”

The heart eases when the heart will cease its lot.
I have imbibed my own tears– their water is flat.
I rain (reign) on modern furniture a lot.

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