Don’t! melt until I’ve lit you.
Covered to the neck. A sheet to morph you, size the shine on your
– don’t!
face.
Now, topless
in the metal chair, like an uncorked bottle. Cross
at the elbows, look down at the ants.
Don’t –
cavort until I’ve snapped. We’ll have some when he’s over. Come under. An object
could fall on top of you at any moment. It might be a person.
Tar stretches like a bird’s foot. Maybe life’s a nude
picnic, then the tar comes in with the tide and I’m dyed
blue, wearing a net. I can take my own
pictures, thank you. I can deal with some glare.
If you’re thinking,
it’s not my place to guess what. Maybe this dead coral you’re posing with
puts your father in your head. Maybe a dead
pillow or a case packed. Hide it
behind your face.
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