was it them that said, i do?
Let's go on tightrope walks.
Cross-eyed stars, played with string and oiled fruit.
With greasy fingers, they touched blue suns:
(Young mothers that nurse orbits,
milk lacking gravity and taste,
robbed of dwarfish years.)
Of course then... perhaps he forgot;
soon to be a wife, shackles on ring fingers,
minds on flecked bosoms.
Necks can break, their thin fibers,
woven into skin,
where moons tickle royal pores,
and never wonder why.