of electric shocks making my brain
juicy with blue bolts of internet (in one year
and out the other). Mop up the residue
of slippery junk mail all over the passage
about tending to the circus of sparks.
I'll cuddle in the foyer, I'll even slam
my arm against the slate floor until
it breaks in two places for you. Cuddle
forever. I would like you to consider
which latch to tug so the white spasm
in that funky part of my brain goes
spastic with charming stories after dinner.
I'll wash the dishes, I'll cuddle in the fryer,
I'll bulldoze the night into a soft series
of sparks that give off the scent of oud
and burnt sugar. I'll stave off despair
while you represent and signify and stir.