on a parlez vous of you,
on noncholance—can you hear it?
on the pastry of your lips
I'm flaking. from reticence
to underbelly of thick oils and silks
we have masterfully detected the art
of Pandora's door. It's not open—
and it's a pain to pry. Incandescent
treads of my worn days spent
in a centrifuge of placated gnomes,
hear strains of tripping on a really
on a current of your currant skin
licorice hairs curling inward to the breadth
of your chest and the multitude of iambic sighs.