I make a citronella circumspect
a Kandinsky sand code for what he calls MADNESS.
Cardiograms desiccate on leatherettes
roping it out with ferrets’ sharp teeth,
rolling thermometers into numberless balls.
I’m angry at myself, quietly dazzled by Perrault
twirls on his umbrella’s high heel,
showing me the hairless backofhishand.
‘See? I’m not crazy—but you are.’
That dream, that joke he made had truth in it.
It observed my perfect sketch geometry
and hit the 50-pointer bull’s eye
with the scuff of his cuff,
lining it up through a fisheye lens.
He stings my heart with the teeth of his laugh.
Sea salt complacency washes over fresh grooves
on the axis of bravery, on the mention of hurt.