Thus far, we speak in metaphors:
deodars and building ruble,
prickled barbs distressed in stubble,
a bell that bids you, ‘get the door’.
My coq au vin, your veiled consent,
the break, that fake, a supplement,
in grasshoppers, as creme de menthe,
those seldom spoken, never spent,
mute conversations I adore.
Our sentences are serving terms
as prisoners with no recourse,
through wishbone breasts with curved remorse.
Your feathered mask, my wan concern,
the absent verb dulled on the thimble,
in silence swings from sharp to nimble.
Thin similes defined in symbols,
gelatinous, they stand up, tremble,
are lettuce seed the hearts return.