I settle up with Mother Sugar.
My rent for the winter is one confession,
the deposit for the suit is a letter
to the man who requested I wear it.
The bell is free (my own burden).
To open it, is to experience an event of whiteness, what Bachelard wrote about the almond of a wardrobe’s insides. My heart is an almond, lost all its colour. Don’t come upon it suddenly, it is very jeune fille, very little fellow, not for the opening.
I didn’t know I was a dog you didn’t want.
The dog’s religion:
You whistled and I came.