How hollow a mouth: like hooves that sound, like coconut shells, like drinking roots. Pluck at me, guitar-boy-fingers, linger, more sultry than the moon and lower and closer; dipped like violet lips against the sunken sips of lullaby snippets. Sing that neon-lit trip, sing sing that ankle-bone moon down. I love you, I love you, Ok or not, Je t'aime.