In The Lusty Month of May

No longer in a relationship
with the meaning of is,
baby. Tragedy is always
a bait and switch. Updated,

anticipated. My profile
hides my lazy I while
yours mixes metaphors
under London Bridge.

Which? Boys are dying
for the tingle of salt
on their tongues. You
heard me right. The

word wasn't what it was
when I circled the windy
lake, sand hilling up
like a documentary
about the Dust Bowl.

Face the music, darling,
you're an open book
when the flame turns
your thin milk to bone.