experiment in poetic shape

taught me well mr. graves, from a hesitant fugue 

to distinct one rhythm and pen it 

 entranced by my zipper she whispered 

with a dance ‘you, know you beet [sic] my heart?’ 

 she sequenced more red staccato and sent it 

received eleven forty-one at my fingertips 

 as I was busy looking at iron sequined trains 

did you know 

I was a dancer? 

fluid 

fluent in 

          a passive glance? 

adore movement     

submission 

      and repetition? 

 best practice was to say that some words  

ain’t built for  

 are against  

poetry 

  pontificate 

  explained 

  submission 

  perhaps if possible 

please refrain from them 

even when you dance 

they distract me 

I begin to think  

‘my zipper, my zipper’ 

 taught me good, milford        

how 

 I couldn’t say 

but since then I feel bass in my breast 

 shake at the movement of legs 

and hesitate at chaste yet 

 makeshift lace 

could you imagine 

       the hard to believe? 

when you showing off  

   my sonic prisoner   your favorite shapes 

imprisoned me  

   your listener?