Rhymer Grimer

timer
thing swing
sway.

Echo.

I hold my hat on tight
fear of flight
in when(dy) night.

Misspelled hell(ed)
as you hold me boldly
against a Will

and Test a mint
to taste graced
flavor upon a tongue
wrung dry.
The childish

game of nanny-boo
and you-know-who
will get kissed
missed
blissed

with my lips alone.
A crone
without a home

but the soggy-damp
box in which
sleep
devours her hours her

mind is set off to...
other things.
Spirit wings.

Flight.

-Rachel Johnson, March 12,1993