i
can never spell deity
&
that has nothing to do with you cos
you
are no Rama, no Jesus, no Zeus, or
even
Gilgamesh. you snore & i snore; you
drool;
i drool. we are imperfect things &
so
we both look for perfection elsewhere:
you
in your Ford Probe turning doughnuts in
pure
whiteness & me opening jewelry box
after
jewelry box left on my doorstep.
the
woodsman never fails me just
like
driving gloves coddle your nicotine
fingers.
really, there’s no comparison
there.
you are spinning in blizzards & i am
picking
deer hearts off velvet lining &
always
a mirror waits to say something.
mama doesn't know why the sonnet. she doesn't know how the sonnet. she doesn't breathe the sonnet. she doesn't eat the sonnet. she doesn't even drink the sonnet.
word.
mama
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