Back when my head like an egg in a nest

was vowel-keen and dawdling, I shed my slick beautiful

and put it in a basket and laid it barefaced at the river

among the taxing rocks. My beautiful was all hush

and glitter. It was too moist to grasp. My beautiful

had no tongue with which to lick-no discernable

wallowing gnaw. It was really a breed of destruction

like a nick in a knife. It was a notch in the works

or a wound like a bell in a fat iron mess. My beautiful

was a drink too sopping to haul up and swig!

Therefore with the trees watching and the beavers abiding

I tossed my beautiful down at the waterway against

the screwball rocks. Even then there was no hum.

My beautiful was never ill-bred enough, no matter what

you say. If you want my blue yes everlasting, try my

she, instead. Try the why not of my low down,

Sugar, my windswept and wrecked.