You Don't Remember

For the pledge of allegories -- to the Eskimos of France -- because the ice isn't too cold. For lemon fresh smells -- to the Paris of Oklahoma -- because your bed wasn't made. For intelligent squirrels -- to disagreements over poetry -- because I'm wasting time now. For a chocolate bonbon -- to eating what you want -- because you don't want a thin corpse. For figuration in all its forms -- to abstract painter alcoholics -- because you need a hangover. For mushrooms in a garden -- to unreal toads in the closet -- because you swam here. For untrue allegations -- to the newspapers that print them -- because I haven't said anything. For whispers tangled -- to the noise that unwraps itself -- because I've run out of language. For winter storm warnings -- to the TV patterns -- because jet planes fly over me daily. For remembering everything -- to snoring during the day -- because my eyes aren't open.