is playing hooky
from the spine
of the poem, the conventional
narrative opened up like a
stamp collection in some
long ago boyfriend’s
attic, what was his name,
something along the line of
John or Tim, oh yes, it was
Perdido, don’t you remember, it
was before the summer
of a thousand leeches, but
after the winter of the twentyish
gold fish found
in Miss D’tours’ saddle
shoes, oh come on, don’t
you recall that December
when the mayor’s head
caught on fire between
the French chocolatier’s legs,
while Peridido got it all
on film but later was found
glued like a stamp to Miss D’tours’
Holstein just after her husband passed
by on the tractor, like all
men, making his thousand
sperm every heart beat
and eating his eight spiders
(on average) in his sleep
at night as he dreams
about Parsees using solar
collectors to speed up desiccation
of the deceased in their Towers
of Silence to compensate
for a shortage of vultures
in Mumbai, India, where I was
trying to flag down a passerby
with one galosh, but, alas,
I digress