I acquire a little comfort from a pipette.
Kitchen sink, your shiny buttercup offsets me as
the darkness of my mind sips it.
My larynx will be choral with rosettes.
Press the indigo bulb; wasps whistle off the vase.
I acquire a little comfort from a pipette.
Their jejune magenta tongues tell me to quit it.
My floral language praises its force in case
the darkness of my mind strips it.
Love dovetails with my tastebuds. Transparent
5 millilitres of the elixir say,
“Acquire a little comfort from a pipette.”
The dew runs clear as a phantom’s silhouette.
A stigma put this flower in disgrace.
The darkness of my mind snips it.
I’ll harvest all the sweetness I can get
from a sour taste which (seldom) irritates.
I acquire a little comfort from a pipette.
The darkness of my mind sips it.