I know I am unfinished
for I do not yet have a mind.
I speak only with what is available:
fog, hydrangea, auburn ringlet.
My soul was eaten with the baggage.
Your resemblance is on my shoulder;
if I stare at you, that is why.
Reach for my glass penis?
I wouldn’t if I were you.
My ears are spirals of pinkish wine.
If your instrument came closer,
O pearl butterfly…