An Inference is a Slyness
An inference is a slyness: intersexed, but not unpolitic,
like satirical cork in your prenuptial embassage,
like elastic partridges waving to us from the quadratical balcony
while beach drones seize and consume.
I am a maniacal hairpin when you use Spinoza letterhead,
salt that sits for weeks encrusts on the lips of Virginia Woolf,
whose sex parts are volumes of yes.
Present-day moles caper on waitress highways
driving engineers mad. Every line of Agrarian poetry
becomes a wrist playing a necklace of bites.
Afrocentric archaisms kneel before libraries
and nonlibraries, waking up only those who go to the gym.
My sister-in-law is a bright light shining in Chile,
understood only by one wrinkly parent who goes to clubs
with dairymaids. Your head is a houseplant
and this is Boston in picturesque conductivity.
art by inserirefloppino