This little piggy stayed home.
My Dixie cup is a paper bulldog.
I need a branch to go in the water.
To tickle your toe.
I need a fireproof branch
because your foot is gasoline.
I like it when I’m lost
(though I don’t like myself so much).
Then you can burn me. Then I am light,
I light up, I drip like a candle dripping
so much wax down its side.
My Dixie cup is thrown in the fire.
When I want you I am tied to a book.
I have a tourniquet in me.
(I am) bound like a dog.
I prance and prance around the lake-edge.
What am I waiting for?
I am willing to let some blood out,
a little bit here, a little bit there.
I’m nervous. I know that’s not the right
combination/procedure. It should flow more.
I know there should be a whole
cupful at least.
I should rip my heart out?
It’s artless. My artless heart.
It flows out, artless.
Over your foot.
It trickles out, like a river.