and that witch with her clothes unwrapped. I want the sugar
of it all abouting around me: the table and the cinnamon
stick, that boy bleating outwardly, to and through, without.
I want the lone hair who itches. The which-ones-are-those,
though they depress me like the dickens. Mixing eggs very
cleanly. The dirty less the dirt. I want to be so old I vomit
with it, my skin a crusty paper napkin. It disgusts me, all of:
the litany, the line with no minus, every dry thing crimping
prematurely at its ankles. The sun is a sad sort of white.
It makes me can't breathe. I want the smell again, the faint
again, the red scorching of knees. Summer pots its scratchy
beads but the bright bride is tired. Besides the lack of burn
she is tired. If there was a seed for my feeling it would be
closed. I would want it. I would want the bitter belch of its
world, and there is (it's crystal), and I do.