Wurlitzer

It feels like every thought I have
Is you in thoughtform turning
Like you are made of light or breath
Like you are made of electricity
And the stomach I have is the stomach
Of fairgrounds - I know the word lurch
I know the word sickness
As if you are sugar spun to a pink
Boxing glove presented to me on a stick
And I have eaten too much of you
Then gone on the waltzers.
Each minute is a minute of waiting
Filled with the tinny tunes of the wurlizter
I'm afraid if I look down this giddiness
Will fell me
Afraid I will see myself melted on tarmac
A pool of wanting. Sticky.