THE RED BOX

I have a little husband. Keep him in
a box. He sleep with rust about his meat,
his tender crust a clutch. His ten-fold skin
so roi. He want and vaunts I beat and beat.
I half a little husband. Keeps him in
a box. He sleeps with rust avant his meat,
his shiny crust a clutch. His two-putt skin
so viney. Vic and then he vow. I beat
him to a finish. Finish blood and blue.
I tell him, now flip over. He cannot
unpaste his shoe. To haste, to haste, to too.
To make my bandy slide inside the slot
I keep him well and oil. I make him stuff
the blade all down > he calls himself a knife.

ANNA MARIA HONG