This used to be a love poem.
I’ll kiss you up and down and out the window
like my parakeet
which flew out the window
because I threw it.
Maybe ‘other person’ keeps you hot-up in the postmeridiem?
I will make you cry like the puppy I ran over
which still has some living parts.
I drive you to the beach.
The moon is a gleaming ice-cream.
Ineptly, there is an otter.
I won’t drown you in the ocean, which is a safe place.
I only drown otters.
Now that my bird is orbiting the earth every two-and-a-half hours,
for it the sun sets each time I bang my head onto this desk.
All I have left to tell you is:
I wanted to bake you a pink red-bean cake.