a slow, careful smile
that curdles on top like bad milk,
a skin freezing in increments over troubled
waters. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says
to the accompaniment of the skeletons doing a jig in her coat closet.
Suspended animation, pendant perfection,
buoyancy battling autumn breeze;
where would you be without
with breath on hold
for the glimmer of the waking sun
to light up your world, a global alarm clock
which will tease open veiled tresses and release your
joy-steeped beauty like a stick of sweet cinnamon in a teacup
of finely hand-painted china, a compound of the world’s richest organic drink.
The weight of your blooms is wearing you down.
Heavy responsibilities are yours to own.
Towers of encumbrance constrain;
Yours is the burden of power.
Like an albatross bloom,
This charge of duty’s
You’re no pin-up, that’s for sure. Too pale, for one thing.
No uniformity. A bit of an odd-ball shade, too.
The sun will wash you out within hours.
That fold is a bit non-conformist.
How will you compete with
How will you set
The value of