help me run
from the cork board swords
and dishcloth ropes
that want to gunk gasoline
on my dormancy.
pairs of white socks
poke their blooming toes
from the fabric valleys and
vegetate the floorboards.
wattage is low
on lampshade spirits.
i vanish from the capitalization
and delete the ripple ribbons
of pavement puddles
and all calendar slashes
marking the end.

let me dance on tile.
momentarily,
allow the paintbrush beetles to
lick the lasting cranberry juice from my tears
so that i may conquer
the gargoyles
of my cork board lungs.
no fuss, just flames.