to a nest of "what if"s in which nipples cried. I turnd over in my flannel sheets & dove into blogs where men are touching themselves with words. my cat was touching me with her paws so I fed her & jumpd back into bed. it was still dark out. soon my mind driftd to that calendar in which poets expose their chests. I returnd to "what if"s. imagine Robert Frost in a thong. Mr. July. that sent me straight to the kitchen to grind beans.