and to kiss the bottom eyelid of a dream that shrugs away.
slip and scurry.
tie the rough-and-
delight in the ripple.
eat up the fog that cuts like glass
and drink up.
the wine's got the flavor of green
and the seams don't tickle except where they want to.
to chafe here is like sipping, itching, nothing.
add all but them. add everything else,
the outline of the grass
matted down now by the thing that shrugged away
at number four and
what it melted in its wake
(neutral number there, made of five)
what but five?
(Written in 2006)