Are you having a good time?
Are you having a time at all?
Everywhere in the garden I see the slim vine
of your neck, the stubborn baby curls
I know I’m not saying this right.
“Good” hair has no body
in this country; like trained ivy,
it hangs and shines. Mine comes out
in clusters. Is there such
a thing as a warning? The Hawaiian
mulberry is turning to ash
and the snail has lost its home.
Are you really all over with? How done
is gone?
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