This World Is Much Too Much Perhaps
Here’s Goldilocks again complaining
about the porridge and smashing furniture.
After such a meager diet of horizon
who can blame her? She’s a city girl, you know.
Has never seen a cow hand milked. (Who has?)
What does she care about Botticelli?
Or how the three bears must feel coming
home to find their place wrecked up?
It could have been so good with her breasts
like painted hills chiseled in the sky.
The hummingbird would perceive her nectar even.
She could be Flora and we who are smoldering
on the edge of distinction would be her newest lover.
But first we’d check to see our gizzards were intact.