IF THE VISCOSITY IS RIGHT

or perhaps it’s a howling in our eyes we’re looking for, 

the last little whirligigs wound up tight

in our sweaters’, cardigans’, pockets’ turning hands making

pinwheels in carefree palettes. creamy

oranges and limes or perhaps we’re sucking down

Milk Way Blizzard[s]® in the backs of yellow

taxicabs on the way to a terminal 

cancer, and earlier that day we perhaps packed up

our divine sepulchers hoping they might be read,

knowing though that once that slinky bird finds lift we’ll all 

be minibar-heavy-headed-on-the-bulkhead and Skymall

til we descend for our approach to somewhere in the galaxy 

under ten thousand feet, and it’s a soft, longish beep-boop, and

“By-by-by the way,” if the pilot is ever caught stuttering,

get ready to shit, because that fucker’s going downtown

with a black Am-Ex card and a posse of angular models,

black button-downs unbuttoned to the third unbuttoned button

exposing pecs that could clench a bottle of Ice Cold™ Zam-Zam-Cola

you’ll hunger for it

and perhaps

there are the sonnets in our Shoes