Anastasia, yellow hair
The one with the butter smile
In a spreadsheet I am a corner cell
And you’re the column heading
We shake hands again and again
And again, in a cream breeze
I comb my hair in buttermilk I cannot taste
In our world of right angle thinking
Where is our justice, Anastasia?

Anastasia, my plaster of Paris
You drip from the tips of my toes
In curdled footsteps, in a cup of Anastasia
I saunter through your cloud
Lather I sponge on your cheek
And shapes on your lips

Stay, Anastasia, stay…
In our solarium, to touch you would consume me
Creamy rivulets part at the golden viol
A plastic-wrapped bow on your strings, I dare not massage
I hear your sweet, sweet music under the violist
And can only strike my head on a window that won’t break
To watch you rise again

October 21, 6:26pm
Copyright ©2000 Michael Paul