This myth is about a girl lounging naked—
just another day in the glade—hoping
for her fifteen minutes of transformation.

In this myth, there is a special inhibition
for which men plant marigolds at highest noon
and not one wilts again and again. This myth

features whippets and an unnoticed rabbit perching
above them on a strangely sturdy flower.
Ok, now hold it. This is the moment of holding it

for what feels like forever. In this myth, Time
spaces on his date with Truth and she is always
never letting him forget it. Her face is unfinished

of tears. (You write about your personal mythology,
he said, greatly offending me. So I turned him into a tree
and cut him down and have been using him

as firewood ever since.) At the moment, this myth
could be any myth. In this myth, I hire some babies
to dress the place up with garlands. For a price,

they will also exterminate dragons. In this myth,
I live in a birdcage painted with foolish peacocks,
starlings, swallows and other emotions

too numerous to name.