The Wax of the Paper Lantern Industry in Upper New EnglandPeter Jay Shippy
Our cottage floor is littered with chop- Sticks, thick magazines, conch coffee cups, White bras (I’m a good girl) and robot bits From the toy rattus who came with few cues. By the end of the lease one desires love Without the poverty of touch. We discuss The courtship songs of common field mice. You read from the Englese directions: As day defirmas terra The rat king’s aria Swallows the opera. The rosewood dresser reflects a box lantern Purled with pearl sakura blossoms. Light turns Dust into snow and rum stains into honey. This was the time, just yesterday, that That little brass band set up in the gazebo And played us from bed to bar to Bar to bed. I require “The St. James Infirmary Blues.” Where have they flown? Nantucket? Block Island? You tear an unctuous page from Vanity Fair And stumble toward the bathroom. Moonlight Licks a sensor and I hear your rodent sing.
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