Draft 1: When I Go to Bed
When we go to bed, the frogs moan
and I think of Venice, glass and laundry.
When we go to bed, did I brush the dog's hair
until it was fine with the butcher to pay Tuesdays?
When I go to bed, the fox tickles
the broom, the moss and her-all asleep.
When I go to bed, the elves buzz
the cave with slut's work.
When I go to bed, the faded flower linoleum
curls and rusts for her.
Draft 2: Nero's Prosciutto
Here, where the frogs moan their graveyard trombone,
I think of Venice and laundry, hanging like Nero's prosciutto.
The hemoglobin hues of summer dresses and last night's underwear
entwine. The pastels of past years and the staggering heat of canals
age the middle school wine.
There, where the eel shined water runs from the mold,
I butcher the dog's hair like a standing rib roast. Santa hats,
protrude on the cracked bone.
Linoleum curls the faded flowers and all sleep, except her
who waits for lemoncello to freeze.
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