God, you were boring me, you and your friends.
They’re all so fresh and young, (and God!) getting married
so young. And you’re still fresh, with that freshman five
you’ve put on. In the face, the legs, I see an angel’s share
of disappointment. What’s that? Speak up, no one can understand
you. ‘Speak better,’ she ordered; ‘speak slower,’ she directed.
Flowers look great in hair, on trees, and in your hands.
Sort of like a skull would fit there,
and through one eye socket, a snake with gold and black bands.
Slither on over to me; these cold days deserve a slide.
You parry with planes across the country, call out, carry on
something you should have checked. Reptiles would look good
in your folded fingers, a thumb on the top of the head,
middle of you index finger pressed up against the throat,
holding the jaw shut.