I misread simple words,
mistake dust for lust, overlook
the bloated belly of the letter d.
This morning, every stroke of the alphabet
cringes or folds, hides itself
behind its bitter alter ego.
Today, profession is possession
as two s's merge, one selfishly
consuming the other. Restful inevitably turns resentful.
And love is lose,
a consonant for a consonant,
an eye for an eye.Satin turns into stain, a dyslexic
anagram, a failed romance.
I want to say more than anything
that kiss does not hiss,
that k's outstretched hand is not rejected.