Charmi Keranen
	Däk-Bungalow   I know about the other room.   Daisy-cutter kissing wolf spider sliding eggs into a cast iron pan.   Except for you, and you.   Good morning, sunshine.   Touch the white of his back, the coldest parade.   I know halogen blue nipples,   calumet isn’t a city,   the wind doesn’t chime. Tua Pulchra Puella   A man walks into a bar and says to the waitress, Tua pulchra puella.  Slow, very slow.   And the waitress stares at him, just stares at him.  Because she knows it isn’t true.  The weight of the language is more than her waitress arms can bear.  But the man is flapping, frantically flapping, on the head of a pin.  No angel, no wings, losing balance, not sure where  to begin. The waitress falls over the horizon, an orbit, and circles back again.  The man quickly opens his hand.  I’m holding five copper pennies, he says, then suddenly folds his palm. What is the forbidden city, she asks him, and when can we go again.