A Fiction

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The birds show up out of nowhere demanding a handout or maybe. Asking for a job. And bricked soil doesn’t so much part as crack wide. Picked ice and wealth, melt. Wives and strollers. Wives and wigs. A gloved hand on her Canada goose makes no sound. Like scentless wax and a spanking. Senseless. A temple to pills filled with art. Looted bones and wings pinned. Corked. The stuff poems are made of: bricks and bricks and bricks. With no train, I am. No feet either. Up a staircase erect and left: a scorpion bowl and a fistful of straws. Elbows knocked in a game of small plates. A contract, a limit. In this way I never finish the cake. I halve the slice then halve it again. Not to savor but. On a checkered floor, every other square a roach.

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Take Care of a Shrimp Tail

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Don’t let go to waste the shell of a thing

that is for all intents and purposes

the total sum of the thing

 

A shellfish,

a feeling

 

which is pink-

smelling

incidentally

 

is sugar husk and

crafted armor

 

in the shape of its body and

your stomach

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