I shall compare thee to nothing of the sort: it's windy as fuck
out there and we all know how windy
fuck is. I shall not compare thee
to the cat who runs across the room with a sonnet
in her mouth. And I shall not know
how windy fuck is. Most of all I shall not complain.
I shall be compliant: it's nothing of the sort
(the sort of complaint, that is, that catches, that complies). We all know
the cat who runs across the room with the wind in her mouth. Open.
We all know nothing of the sort. Blow away. We are complicit
in this instance, we are complacent and it is only this wind
that runs across the room with nothing but a sonnet in its sorry mouth.
Blurred music cuts in and out. This evening's walk is brought to you
by the almost full moon which hurts too much, please
go away.
