give me your suffering,
your training wheels,
your spare rooms.
i implore you to share
what you were about to
say, standing there
cute like a cupcake, in-
voking an in-voluntary rush
that runs and runs and could
elevate the dead. but first, engage
the fluid backdrop of the head: forti-
fied with a sand wall of lit-up dixie
cups. welcome to the stellar
circus, where we are all cotton-
woods coming apart on the wind.