Candlepin, lynchpin, safety pin become
death by fire, hanging, stabbing. Cocktail
becomes the plumage of a male bird
staring me down in the dirt. Napkin
is a sleeping cousin drooling on my bed:
it’s noon. Heaven-sent, you smell like
the gods. A word can sock you with a kick,
mock you in a turtleneck, hiding its intent.
Barely. Comedy is two-faced, watching.
Come on, give it a try. Hot dog? Wild
flower? Everything is sweaty and dancing
when you bring back the inanimate.
Looking into its violent core, dormant
but burning to be read wrong, read right.