I, coaxed under the quilt, am.
Say the following, aloud, three times:
Through open shutters, panes, and, screens does the breeze force a shudder from these
And, you try to wait for the good ones to come; but,
meanwhile, you wonder,
Is the barre too high?
He could pull a hamstring, stretching,
while I’m stood there,
en pointe, waiting.
(((Suddenly, the tweezers I lost,
after a lengthy diatribe) delivered to Know~One)
…I told you I’d try)
((( (…) )))
And, like a moth, I wait for his light to turn on;
were they to read this, each might think it’s about him.
Bringing the medicine of chaos, I return.
Full and hollow like a cæctus tree.