Draw your blade, you spirulina-spawning interim! Your
neurasthenia slits into a whiff of perforations. But your touch will
not infest my centrifuge with the milk of coming home. A little
mist on paper lanterns makes the gossip-mongers flush. Cuddle in
your inglenooks. Fold napkins into drafts for burnt-out dioramas.
Extort an untold sum from the pettifogging pigeons caterwauling
through the gas. You’ll not convince the average lover to upend his
empty nest. Is this too coy for a beginning? A crummy integer’s
memento mori reaching horned and darkly toward the sun? But let’s
not get kaleidoscopic. We might as well hold hands and place our
trust in the embrace of muffled circumstance. If they come from
broken homes or if they shoot the moon for fun we’ll simply dump
them from the ship and smudge their names straight off the map.
–Elizabeth Marie Young