and because cold dead eyes
for giving hands
ice jokes kindly
makes no one
pool quiet rushes.
so tomorrow usually
versus whatever
xenolith you zero.
a baked crust decides.
everyone feigns gladness.
heats ice. just kisses.
like magic noses,
our peculiar
quirks roll steaming
toward Vesuvius.
we xerograph
“yes zabaglione,”
a beast custardy
desert. eat
for g-d.
have it judiciously
knit, lament more
noxious orange people,
quit resting so timidly—
we xerox your zigzag.
