Mrs Cline

Come on Mrs. Cline,
serenade me to the heavenly planes
sweetly
like the gush of mangoes
and the gnashing of teeth, on fiber, and sugar alike.
There’s a baby scorpion in the corner
but I’m crazy for trying, crazy for dying.
I put my feet up as a precaution.
It is the precursor to your floating effect .
Time is this lovely, tiresome thing
you can’t help but fall in love with her.
Time in all her splendor plays you her violin
lulls you to sleep from the final breakthrough
and the in between breakthroughs
if we can be honest with the self.
Tetrahedron! you smirky pale dear
invisible
degradable, with Time.
Darling I’ll make it right.
As in not right now, but oh so much later,
and Time
she’s got us hostage in bonds of daffodils
gasps
and grass blades.
Come on Mrs Cline,
If Time weren’t Time
the art of suffering, the will to pine
would skitter amiss.

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