lying. She told me not to
        and discover a new form
        tango-like. Bitter. Or was it
        ensconced? The trail
        of black smoke taper
        and thin candle- it's
        ceiling-high. The ISBN
        quietly feels her up-
        cover-praise from Village Voice
        when she reads the book &
        violates her new
        form. Why paint
        Elvis's nose crooked? Art, drugs.
        The third man left his wife-
        banked the future
        and lied his way into jail.
        Three squares and a cot. Any
        thing to reduce his debt.
        Cumulative. Newborn baby-skin
        and when hair follicles begin
        closing you get baby-fine
        and then none, hair. Honey.
        Don't call her that. Liar.
        I told him not to and
        did, could, tried, it all
        went. She traces the steps
        to hell and discovers
        her backyard. No fountain.
        Betty Orleans. Stage name
        would have been in the show,
        see it, but no one came.
        Trickle-up economics
        of love and perspiration.
        We sweat the keeping.

Copyright © Dianna L. Zimmerman, 2004. All Rights Reserved.