The heads are talking without
seeing or caring much
about wind direction
or how much pepper to add.
I have some secrets
that I wear openly
but no one seems to get
the codes or the patterns
like plaid like trios like spirals
bound to be plated with gravy
with sides of sparkly faraway
daydreams wearing corsets
loosened with teeth by nightfall
if the mind is willing
and the flesh bends the right way.
The moon says yes, please.
The Word Rummager 
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