Mr. Whiskers has a real sweet
tooth
so he sits in a garden counting
butterflies. Ah, butterflies.
More like cows than butterflies,
more like elephants than butterflies,
not at all like the ideal table of tables
to plop down your head and sleep.
A Curly Wurly is braided chocolate.
Paradise is always within eyeshot.
But so are pinstripes, Death Valley,
silk stockings, the music of fish,
land of milk nuts.
Farewell to fat walls.
The last golden hinters left Europe
for the dense flakes of Montana.
Life consists of stacked tears
but the hierarchy keeps shifting.
Down the line of time mirrors
become keyholes, worms circle buttercups,
everyone’s fab mother burns a cake.
After the death of beauty the head
turns blue.