This blissful abyss we share glows,
gaudy-full if unfulfilling. … It spins in
purple prose. … It tastes of bon-bon
mots. … It won’t suppose the inky
murmurs squirming below it,
or those secret scents that rise in goodbye-
giving waves ... or those
undulate and aqua misunderstandings
misgiving further underneath.
Ours is a blank-space world. ... It’s always
facing West, its face made-up
with gunpowder daubs. … Its head
is traced on one side by Queen Anne’s
lace, the other bullet baubles. … Its mind
is stripped of all naked-mole
rat thoughts. ... They’re the ones who might
burrow blind but unafraid
to love a common, unadorned heart.
A Wordling Whirl of Sundays.