Yore

A most enchanted I dunno.
As in: days of. Passing out, your

lemon peels made perfect bookends.
As in: many splendid mishaps of.

Your little thorn-spiked punch.
Under a lintel with always

an of or a with & an and
to bring us close to sparrows.

O, but. Gasp. Without you, there’s
nothing to slander in Xanadu. Lately,

the connective has been
knocked out of bounds, as in:

there are no more bounds in this town,
but lots of eraser nubs, lots of nefarious

scribbles. Somehow, it follows that
what falls inside, sips a tumbler

of jello covered pins; a toaster fussing
over squirrels, fussing over crumbs

in corners & thumbs in sockets, spigots
spouting cardamom & ice. Call back, I am

busy forging signature hairdos
& teaching an evening course on morass;

I have no time for a toe-stub or your
pinky-stung rebuff. What’s worse, pasty glare,

or pastels in October? Most days,
I revisit the blanks of the Why

& have blackout served with raw
onions, stretched out where an arch was built

to support our bonsai amore & broke for want
of stupor. But leave that space be or be

gone. Believe in it. Put your red pencils away.