Antennae

Wanna lay on the floor and let things happen over us? Not bored, boards of floor and everything in your hair. I’d go fishing off its edge, pulling expressions from your face. Wanna? At night wanna? Or how about-. Or hands wanna chop them off and trade? Your love-handed piano puppets for my hip-tapping, blood-moving you-feelers. Who’s feeling who, now?