as the kinky clairo cardigan
on Greeky dander skin,
a proud but lanky can of limbs.
How important is he?
I wonder if he tumbles like me,
He might be a high Giraffe peddling for petters,
dipping it's neck in wasp nests,
always upset at himself
gingerly and timid,
fearful of time nearing its end,
and yet he moans,
turning a cheek from his parish
faring to weep and groan
over the brokenness between them.
"we're just pearly black creatures waiting to die."