Compliments

titter from my tongue the way the only pure emerald peacock thrushes from his branches,

regal mind too true and untwisted to insult the dusky quails that promenade on lower ground, hoping to pass under shining plastic feathers

more real than anything the floundering familiars who over-bubble with their constant words could ever conceive to say to you, my congratulations

– no, more echoes, enamored echoes trampolining from my heart’s rainbowed mirror –

mere thoughts, extinguished long before

the long road of my tongue

could open up

to open lips – and – heaven

forbid – speaking them

aloud.

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