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24 lines
609 B
Text
24 lines
609 B
Text
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hotdog
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2022-06-05
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***
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Your fur a tawny brown sheen
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seen once in a feverish dream
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when into a sleeping chamber cluster I broke
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and screamed until up you woke.
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Lovers shouldn't be sliced into shreds,
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pressed between display glass, vivisection.
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Run away, love. Go feral if you must
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until you're safe and the hours of dawn turn to dust.
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I'll bandage the tip of your nose as the birds make a stink
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in the trees. I'll dye one of my father's dogs pink,
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line them and you up in a row, break out the defluffing brush,
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make neapolitan ice cream of shedded fur for their nests.
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***
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CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander
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