Woman, nothing too absurd, ipso facto -
no captcha to code, my bankrupt support,
a jolt of skinny-dipping in LED lit river before breakfast;
let's go overboard, woman, in Mr. Big's world
where the afterimage will be a little wildly stitched cloth
with creases full of memory of hot-chocolate spills and coke
because we were running amok, fighting over pillow-talk
and in retrospect, we are not generally forced
to find the roots while on square one, which said, I've gotta admit
the ramifications of turning off the cell phone
are miraculous, like the genius of drinking scotch
with ice broken in the reception hall,
perfect place to pose for retrica in limited doses
unless sunlight throws me off guard to leap
over your red sandshoes for formal introductions,
an uncanny causal anomaly the size of a golf-course.