Give me poems with flesh on their bones
though lighter fare sometimes suffices
like that of visions floating stiffly,
of white lipstick and makeup thickly.
Please, don't make them to Stephen Kingish
impaled bloody on old Maine steeples.
Please poem me instead in a gentle speak,
not a Poe of Tell Tale Hearts,
nor cries me of weather vanes spinning contrary
to nor-easterners turning keel up fishermen husbands.
Don't haunt me nights with the ghostly fair Leonora
drowned in frothy sea, her lockets tossed
ever before she saw the bringer bring
the crimson carnations of her menstrual cycle.
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