Why People Look Different from the Inside

Bobby Parrott

Miss-stepping my way out of the garden, I finally
unknot the scent of honeysuckle, opals crusting
molten zippers, random bullet in oaken door. I toast

the last charms that ring this swiveling planet
until the active black hole lodged in my guitar's chest
opens its colossal eye, gifts you its fingerling hues
strung out in this song. I can remember the silent
howl ululating from the other side of the woods
as you died. Smooth as serrated, I suffer the break
from embodied, stir each fusion of teeth sutured 
in place, skin a sideways rhyme. Plant cravings tooth 
a woodenness from light even when this crumpling
clarinet suction-cups us free. Fresh ebony. Contagion 
filters be dammed. Flung galaxies relent to wheelie 
in our sub-divisional sauce, while the Science Fictional
melts, shrivels its rivulets into a cloud-furrowed kiss.
Still I grow smaller, send starships thru the fluid 
rainbow of your neckline, sprinkle of a fuchsia fire
embedded in my crystals. I urge purples, arms lashed
to windmill blades. I'm knee-deep in your willing ocean
of names. Must we then adore this growing pretend?