the adams apple
bobs
like the water
is sloshing
the sides
and the heads
are slapping
against the
fine surface
that is festival

the red tinge
spreads as smooth
as butter
against the paleness
of your lips
and you smile
that icy
wax drawn
carriage
until your teeth
shine
as pale
as a fireflies
wing.

Carry on
let the hands
unfold
and twist
and turn
dance in the
glade
that holds you tight
and whisks you
like fine
yolk

the fairies
prattle
is unintelligable
but still
as sweet
as the
most brilliant
cake
their burbles
and blooms
and blusters
and blushes
are finite
and magnificent
fodder for your
cannons

for your heart beats

the poem escapes you
and your lips close
and a beat passes
in which the world
halts its turn
and in turn
hauls your
pretty little behind
out of the mess
you caused

don't say
we didn't
hold you
because
our fingerprints
are all
over
your
blushing
stagnant
muscles

twitch,
and the
fairies sing.