Should I lose half my moustache in the intemperate teeth of time, please remember to tell my brother that I borrowed his brown tattoo, even though it tickles, to mount its handles upon my lips to hide the signs of what I’m thinking beneath the mountain of what I speak, behind the curtains of what I wear, in spite of permanent gleaming. Please tell the supermarket clerk that I lied to him about the animal. Please tell my faithful grade school teacher that he was right in the end. Please remember to tell my sister that the family pet is dead and I won’t invest my lover’s breast in that palace made of sand because I lost my elbow and I lost my wrist and I lost my liver in the deathless bliss of hardly dreaming. Should I lose half my moustache from frequently kissing the ghosts of certain particular girls, or misplace it in an unreadable book or barter it for a bassoon Or be impelled to have it amputated because of its unusually pale color or be compelled to consume it to avoid starvation upon an ice floe. Please remember to tell my mother I always meant to wear her wig But my balance wasn’t quite good enough and the wind was blowing mighty hard and no one told me what they really thought and I was no good with hats so I resigned myself instead to symmetry with clock hands dangling off my face.