The seventh tone of the ninth month–
tired tired tired of your implied biography–
several of reversals sail aisles in deportment
stores fats as taffeta in fetching gritty

last pipe hit across my face unshaved–
pills glissand our salty gaming, but
I CAN’T DISTINGUISH AMONG MODES NO
more or less, nor Romans 11:50–

No more text, much less testicles

Webster’s defines “Privation” as:

What Mary must be missing is the time of smooth silence and sinuous glass; light quelled for Autumn, Summer’s riot brought to its knees and sighing, sighing, sighing to be released. I’d sign anything she put in front of me, as long as I could use your signature. Liquid dimples pepper spice, lying before us indolently and secure; from somewhere else a light breeze coiled its hair. Remember to shower, it says. Don’t forget to re-attach the arms and legs of your favorite action figures. What Mary needs to understand about the Kingbury Run murders is that memory lets you pick stuff up, like cellphone convos or LMFAO at RTFM. Just how much fun is Slinky, tumbling down Brady Bunch stairs like the musculature of the serpent, just before Atari 2600 rats us out to Homeland Security? I don’t feel so secure, I’ll tell you what. I’ll tell you what Mary needs, or I’ll start needing it too.

Me, I’m missing the smooth cilia along the throat where laughter pushes that stalwart wind.