Tender mother sleep
lulls us speechless–

childhood mirrors bathe us
for hours in tangerine shadows,

whisked by fragrance
and pebbled with gray area.

We trip through a hole in the floor
nary an inch wide, but big enough

to engulf us once and forever
in haze and old-timey rhetoric.

Argyle suits beckon us further,
to the so-called country

and the wasps in charge of it
until they strangle all life

or die trying, mouths ablaze
and flies open, awaiting service.

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