Night. Moves.

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.

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