You cannot be a raisin, Mr. Sun,
though you are nearly so intense.

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My shape is known by the sick yellow foam,
bubbles gesticulating
like clouded eggs, saloon patrons
all facing the mirror as if waiting for a compass
to be tossed through
by elegant costumed bandsmen from a watery past.

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I don't know anything about the army,
officer, leastwise whether it deficated a stolen teacher.

Tiramisu or the sound of an accordion in which it is hid?

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Sealed in a boutique cause,
I become the conversations I couldn't decipher
because the words couldn't be heard
or there was a morass.
I want to use the present
against myself.
I like it
but hate that
it exists.

I want any ridicule to be heartfelt
I want you on my team
I want to take you back to the happy island I know,
the tropical drinks,
the grass skirts, steel drums, the mountain pass, the beautiful snow,
our legs like exhausted rivers,
and some eternal youth and optimism.

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Air is like glass, if you're a dead bird.