with secret: throated, gleeless and aching
for breath, not breath
not enough to fill
(it’s edges are filed nicely though: all crystal and sandpaper and shine)
pompous and snag-free,
your holiday sweater’s fully
no snow roses
or tinsel teeth
or pine needle disinfectant
only things left unsaid
and bubbling at the underbrush of
baby talk--really gutsy baby talk--
(we’re talking eyeballs and soft spots and milk teeth here)
we pray to the ancients for bigger everythings
--fins, humps, gills, morosity--
to fill up this endless home-sick-ness
of blackened wishbones
and garish garland
eggs deviled with care
Dear Grand-Monster Ness,
(It’s okay if I call you that, right?
I mean, I know we’ve never met,
But it feels like I know you.)
Your gloom effuses all waterlogged cavities.
I really like your tail.
Seriously, I’ll take whatever,
though an anchor would be divine.
With subtlety and haste,
The The Empty.