Through the syrup of night, trees — over there.
Beauty approaches with knocked-out teeth.
Hard to persuade someone who refuses to admit
to the jeweled tang
of their piss —
but I’ll try. She’s looking for me.
She’s not looking for anyone else. I know this.
Swing, fat ballerina,
you’ve gained weight.
I’ll see you through the lean times —
diets, forced vomiting, the like.
On my back I wear a child’s piano —
Tinkled notes of midnight, crisply frozen grass