I have lush grass in my mouth come sit,
come mess with my unplumbed sum, let

your finger at leisure destroy my mute,
my hermetically sealed little baggie of spit.

I treasure whatever will stay in the room:
it's a skill I developed of knowing no No.

And if it goes well we can bury our wit
in the small mammal graveyard at Sutton

and 4th. On its back. In the dark. No soft
lumps of light sneaking through. Now we

are tulips whose main function is to petal
down as fast as possible—how do I help?

I'll write you a wife who hates my hair.
Your wife can stop by to thank me in half.          

__

I deleted all drafts of this sonnet and now have no memory of which lines from The Tempest were initially in here. Maybe there were none to begin with.