a valve hisses, intermingled
with something fluty, a spiraling no-sound,
infusing panic in
the wrist
always where there's evil,
muppets medically accordion
on their god-hand
screaming: “it feels like foreign meat hinge
“on my face and peel from holes
“like a ski-masked robber's nose!”
a cocktail umbrella
plummets awkwardly
down to Miss Piggy's
hooves...
the hand's horse-knees' sensitivity to stockings;
their heads covered in lipstick hives;
reading their scalps with internal fingers,
the hand feels deep underground
the presence of Elmo the janitor,
in love with his mind,
“luring me like ancient
roadkill fudge in a vat”
