Rootwork

I want to take your hands from my hips and place them on a statue's hips. Call you Ransom Lewis. Lift the dewy crane of metamorphosis from its slum near the alphabet. Am I an open window yet? Broken where the repair swung in. They're not exactly perfect. They're not perfect. My muscles of folded jade. Jade in tidy supple bows. Jaded violin of so-what/Let the heir in. I stand on my toes and they burn and scoot and numb with use. Do dances to the muting tantrum. Be the hip frail damsel. Stretch and rip and go up in burning buildings. Come out done talking about survival. Come out prepared to have not come out. Mouthing It is with such intense joy. We spoke in moans of the colonization of 'swing.' Of the wingedness of the statue's hips I-by-you-put-on