Those Eyes

You are eating honey with chopsticks.

The honey is (of course) slipping off of them and

Landing on your Santa Claus face.

It crystalizes the bleach-white hairs in an amber-like fashion.

They are enveloped and suspended in the golden goo.

I tell you that you have honey in your beard.

You chuckle- your desert lips part to reveal

Three oasis teeth in a vast landscape of

Tongue and gums and space.

Your face folds on itself indefinitely.

It is a skin skyscraper.

You are pitifully old.

But your eyes, your

Eyes are the carnival.

They are rollercoasters and

Neon lights and summer nights and

Cotton candy. I envy those eyes.


I offer you a napkin.


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