blizzard

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sunset choreographed fistfights, do you get that

 

crickets change pitch based off ambient

 

temperature shifts? they forgot my fruit pie

 

the last time i was there, is that a shirt

 

or a blouse, tell me. those dangly accents

 

around my neck suggest

 

the latter, but now the desert

 

only has high noon to wring

 

answers from. wild onions stand up

 

nicely to the considerable heat

 

proper destruction requires, my ass,

 

however, turns salmon when people

 

loiter on my grave. wrinkled egg google image search

 

morphs into bouquets of learning

 

new words, though only one out

 

of a hundred survive to adulthood. acres of oiled

 

up animals designed to be eaten living

 

too long, spreading old monstera

 

seeds from their owner’s intentionally minimalist

 

apartments, bay windows ajar but unbroken,

 

as if the residents could be back

 

any second. the animals

 

enter scene, they brew malt liquor, decamp

 

their stills and carboys to the sewers

 

where best to protect the juice

 

spilling from scallop

 

edged underwear. we moon

 

over my child

 

sized fort left to lichen, termite

 

frass mounded atop polaroid

 

quality memories, the sand box

 

my parents laid beneath

 

pocked with inverted cones declaring

 

ominously the presence of ant

 

-lions, little sinkholes filling in

 

as a metaphor for anything.

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