LITTLE POET

You twist
words.
Don’t.
They said.

Her eyes edge
sideways
then mutiny.
She likes

the sounds of
words bullied,
teased into
torture,

banged
twisted
Chinese-
bangled.

She likes
Lying--sorry--
lAying them
on the floor

pretzeled
giggling
twining
Twister-ed

and coiling
twirling
them
in lassos,

like garlands
(see that?)
ensnaring
tangles.

Likes screwing
truth, so tight
it parts in
ecstatic rupture

into sighs
further words
that shoot
quake and carom

and she calls,
collects them
all
to balance

like showy beads
showing
her lip,
on tip of tongue.

Blowing
spit bubbles?
Don’t.
They said.

(Perhaps)

_