we’ve been trying to find out. is there really such a thing? itch that skin, sugar drop. walk like your thighs love spandex, chemical compound-laced threads smick-smacking through the tall, tall grass.
what is alive and how do you wrap it around your wrist; yellow is the knot that won’t slip. it swings through, leaving a neon trail of light, the specific frequency that repels mosquitos.
don’t give up, someone will be here soon to peel you a grape, an orange, a syringe fatter than a banana. that ought to relieve the itch.
this isn’t something that will fit in your locket, it’s a picture no envelope will love or deign to hold. this is an open-mouthed warning, meant to be seen.