Sonnet: Your Lips Soft as Lard
Apricot ears pinned to your oblate head, hair
balled in a bun at the nape of your neck. Eyes
like dungeons, lids at half-mast. Oh, stop now.
That last was too much, too redolent of swampy
waters near the shore of the sea, birds stopping
to feed in that migratory way that they have.
Blinded by recalitrant moon emerging from pen-
umbral maroonity. What next (or what nest) then
my luv, my lubricatory evasion, my turtlefox?
Intelligent satellites wanting to know, b4
more toxic spray comes wafting our way.
Hal
Halvard Johnson
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