Surrealism

She laid out pieces of poetry like dinner plates.
She wrapped words around her waist,
and sliced through pain with her fingers.
She chewed on puncuation and spat out the seeds -
until he kissed her.

Then silence sailed in on a golden raft (or maybe it was a napkin holder, made out of clay, that her mother had bought back from India; no one ever accused silence of being picky - and does it really matter? Strawberries.)

She wrapped the quiet around her,
but it became undone, exposing her nakedness (cunt. Get me a hamburger.)
so she searched for a safety-pin,
or a crumb of a letter to eat.

In the space beyond words, she spread her fingers over floor-boards full of the dust of abandoned puntuation.

All she heard were heart-beats.