showtime sugar, this is it / what lies down dorothy’s brick road / the golden token heavy in the pocket

I'm tired, all the ellipticals in me are tired, of being object / and smack, of whistles and low moans and beautifuls /

grasping at our ankles like thick vines in heat.

I imagine their eyes / late autumn / winter /early spring / dilated with fear. Or, narrow / with no capacity to understand. / The killer’s mind a hailstorm / of anger and confusion.