legs like flamingos
but worse, they’re as good as real
now who’s charming who
tripping down staircases
total gratification
of seeing our feet under the stalls
she remained an aristocrat
humid and sopping in there
even with the bathing suit
what do those ladies smell like
bleeding ulcers in a gown
watch them stagger
into the everyday
decorative and thrusting
greased-stained cotton
through a pinhole
teasing and quiet
the two have to meet
waiting in the same line
a mutual pretending of the familiar
when the projector fell in love
she believes it, uninterested
he imagined unzipping a fleece jacket
pulling arm rests apart
it is that physical
trapped against an extra limb
following, exhausted
red tinges the cushion
a kind of hieroglyphic, skin
he was too bare-chested
rising from the kitchen floor
girls and wild horses
boys and wild horses
get stuck in swamps
during the time tile cracks
mold can multiply
as conversation promises
there the great adventure
not the same
dull and caked
an outline disappears
calls it the slopping of mud
clumps of hair in the drain
a small indication
christmas happened
iron traps
tease out the danger
of the living room as it dims
there is still a part in the pond
that his youth exists
stark and pulsating against the walls
no one could see straight
a sliver on the inner thighs
was too much for the internal hush
she crushes with her thumb
spitting and laughing
Some parataxis sonnets I wrote earlier this semester.
