Like Beatrix Potter,

Wittgenstein held a sweaty mother once too
	with an armature of lines
Oh god yes & didn't he feel that like a kid

playfully moved by a tornado
& plopped down into a watered-down cotillion,
	truant semester of brain nerves & deviled eggs
	
	& so we are awful little people with awful little dreams...
	
Well, don't get in a fuck about it
thinks Beatrix crapped out on a diagonal,
with car swerves & mad-cap shooting
	at the height of a person's heart
	
Anyway the glamour & crash of Wittgenstein without blood
or Black Russians

Delineates the helixes of Beatrix
	"my speedy dessert season"
	An armistice wrested from the dying bunnies
& splayed like the fourth of July

Her old bean primed for love & petrified
like spring girls in weight roooms at 14
Hold on pussy hold on
	There you go. Now you're fine.
	
Beatrix's affections return tenacious
& slow like spanked kids or continental drift
All this & she is deaf