one thing that i just can’t conceive is
how i just let you go on and on
about 50 different permutations
of happiness ever after; the world
ipso facto, post-factum. alea jacta est.
when the frog kisses the prince
cherry-blossoms whither on stems
as white as a peranakan girl’s buttocks
not for nothing the revlon red of your lips
is now a washed-out pink on the rims of wine goblets.
o don’t you wish you had a river
you could skate away on? i will
draw bear footprints on its surface
with my breath, the tip of my nose
catching the cold reflection of my face.