Your Move

Donning such fishy skins,
we are duly, dully impressed.
New capacities are gearing up
for what is sure to be a hootenanny.
Sometimes, whispers smear the walls.
Slurp the decade through interchangeable lips,
and don’t forget to gild your tongues, O my lovelies.
Nothing quite like passing a fancy
through the mesh of sensitive hearts.
Hear me out – I am not a part of anything,
nor brought to heel by broadbacked suitors
‘neath a lavender moon.
All this caterwauling has me in a fix.
I tell you and then fold myself into the telling,
its frosty embrace burrowing
through my pores and into warm bone.
Like anyone would understand,
approve, or approximate.
Your move, syntax.
Just take care to keep these fetters tight.

-r. miller

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