My Little Golden Book of Phobias

Throw your old suit on the fire


when I squint you float on ashes
the burn marks are gone
we used fade cream
as usual a miracle
my darling
I sag in your presence
my ligaments have lost their burnish
you swirl your marvelous hair
a gathering of hoopla
after the pruning
kites were found in the tire treads
we sighed in unison
(you must move out)
before I am forced to put iron filings
in your mutton sauce
walk with me to the gravel pit
look
algae shaped like the face of Jesus