buy a pretty dress, he says,
and let’s stand under a canopy of stars –
that’s so Victorian of you, she says,
i don’t want roses i want dandelions,
save the sonnets and give me your hands instead.
vases of flowers and crinkled invites,
ties hurriedly arranged and the ring bearer
wearing one shoe. give me the crook of your collar bone and
i’ll be fine
red bowtie lips and a burnt flambé
and rain is spoiling aunt judith’s curls.
rosacead and whiskeyed uncle john completes the company
of the day’s clichés.
it’s all falling apart, he says,
plans and purpose without purpose.
how defeatist of you, she says,
i could live on bread crumbs and your honey skin alone.