This is almost too cute for its own good. Strike that. By the last stanza, it is too cute for its own good. Not to say, I don't get a kick out of some of the vernacular. But for every boulder balls up and the sun in a blue car, there's a midget April or Mr. Razzledazzle. Oh, she tries to salvage things in the end with italicized significance drenched in honey. As an afterthought: some stange line breaks going on here. She does love that first word of a new sentence hanging out there with some kind of stark enjambment. It doesn't work for me.
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