wake up closeted heap. A
heap in the closet worth two
in the bush? Maybe. But
don’t crotchet. If wishes
fools, an apple a day, etc.
I’d cry at pop-tarts, smooth
butter my tears. Don’t
yell at me dating getting
anything but sex. I’m dis-
something. Dissatisfied,
dissipating. It gets my
goat until I’m fried. I
feel right now I have
nothing to feel guilty.
Only responsible
shackles a tundra
without lotion.
Mocks my heap? A-
wake is not always
more alive. A good
thing you walked in.
A tussle over love is
worth every scrape.
I’m no closeted met-
aphor anymore, linger
at every nib of your
sass and your coaxing.
Gentle anniversary of
my thawed-out winter
come hither. A yawn-
ing sofa warmer than
a tanning bed. My
Florida. My
Miami.
