They’ll read something like it somewhere—
wronged one longed all along for the long gone wrong one

wool over this one’s eyes, steel wool
in that one’s mouth, a half-eaten blood orange

on the floor of some abode, some dust
devil of angel dust, where, half-senseless

in a half-slip, a drama mama fans herself
with an automatic, strung along

by this mind reader, that peter
meter, another string bikini’d string bean

who in a string of bad language unstrung
my mind—a gripe a gulp a growl a glint a goring