in azure
so, they look flashier
than Christmas tree lights.
You stretch and pull
and pencil in
to make them go
with your wide-tooth grin.

You bat them at men.
Those half nut flutters
look like an old quill pen.
Yet they don’t disguise
your anguish and your pain.
You’re a prize –
in this lonely/solo charade.

They pay money
because they love
hairy honey.
They ******* to it.
But no one reads –
when they’re spilling seeds
or looks deep
into the circle of hazel.
But my, oh my
sure, are quick
with the appraisal.