Around the funky
Trunk
Crawled the pollid
Nymphs,
Splitting their
Lime-green morning suits
As they came—
Seeking not fortune or
Fame;
But their own kind;
Melding opposite
Number
In a torrid chorus
of love.
Passage of weeks
These lovable freaks
Have left only fragile
Gossamer trinkets, of
Crush wing-lets…
