Take this piece out and move it,
somewhere else—where it's suited
better. Transplant this thing of water
all filled up inside the milk jug, old
and bent from usage. What puce
and facile member thrust upon us
with no dawn of lust on the horizon.
The vital thrust n of one's culminating
argument reads disappointingly. An
anti-climax if there ever was one.
The dust on the path; and they say
that all dust is mostly human skin.
On the glass of the television,
and the glass coffee table, and rust
on the legs from it's being outside
on the humid lanai.
