Gentle burglar with black mask and flash light, I
can't love you like I do velociraptor or vegetable
curry, the April of this half-loving ghost
town. But baby, in sadness, there you feel free. I
sleep, much of the night, and roll myself a snowman
torso in the winter:

lovely vagabond, neutered driftwood, we won't take
away your stolen bicycle or any of your cracked
dinosaur egg children; we will send you small packages,

all the artichoke love you can choke down, twine bound
in brown paper business suits, no shoes in spring.