You are in a sulk, the kinky-bitter
Of frisée smothered by acute
Rosemary, irrevocable sage.
You revile herbs, ambition, fawnery.
Why were you a recluse
Hiding hither, there
In the straw-filled cages
Of the puppy mills,
Waiting there for what.
In the story, your life was young,
Would last. In the east you made
No memories. In the west you never were.
In the middle of the country, once
In a large, aspiring, opaqued crowd,
You could barely wait to be visible.
In two thousand years, malaise
And foaming, hydrophobia—
The diagnosis is not possible
Before the Posthumous. Don’t pout.
What animal, do you think,
Would velvet be the pelt of?