skittish, though warmth in splices
curtsies the cells on my back

sleeping next to hot water,
****** sentences writhe for honey

pull that fingernail from the hammer,
dilettante can be my only pleasure

dictioned through playful scraps,
you’re interpersonally–strangely–kind

a case of baskets, take my brain with you
hum before you rattle thaumaturgy out

remain seated–
critique grandly–
...this perfunctory serf is dead.