Somewhere, a turtleneck is missing its girl.
A flute polishes its pearls.
A star is resisting imploding, pulling
her paths into his roads.
Just to cross and not too close.
Inches from freckles forever
in view, Sad eyes are made
lighter than blue.
If Fantasy looms, it’s because he’s
standing on a pedestal.
He’s selling notions to buy an ocean—
somehow he believes:
If this man is an island,
She might be the sea.
He could feel the dips and sit
within the swells.
He buys a notion from and for himself
And, as he unfolds his pleats,
he yells,
‘We All Have
clean sheets and dusty shelves.’
