What man would buy me a ticket, and into a cocoon where moss bites?
I would sting like bees on buds, or ***** rushing to fertilize, create an angel no other gentlemen touches with white hair, eyes like sesame seeds: she seems more attractive than the woman he made love with, for certain.
Looks unnatural to swim in a pool when a waterfall can pour ice onto his head: just as viney-things drape me.
I am but a fair girl, have no color. He could not love me beneath green, there is no comparison, me and trees, but he does, and I feel April will return sooner and ruddier than anticipated.
May will bark like a dog: on my knees, cradling children who hold vanities up to my forehead, I boast a bellyful of bugs, brick-hued and even with red stripes; I think they must wear sweaters to bed.
How noble in our thirty-six months! We cuddle baby slugs, not counting sap, then burp their brothers, spout-mouths.
He is, in fact, the man that would do the unthinkable grey-lipped love, authors gather inspiration from and snakes slip, spiders webbing shapes of: cocoon with our metamorphosis in mind.