It will blow in gingham patterns.
It will dress your smile as one smothers
grade A beef patties in grey poupon
and thinks themselves superior.
It will cross your bloated meat in
depleted veins with the patience
of first presents wrapped by children.
It will soak your hair in dehydrated
mustard urine, a cafeteria salting
lamb. Like a god left out of style,
plaid rotting in decades past, it will
hang you to dry on the butcher’s
twine as though you had no meaning
to gravity anymore. The buttons
pop on alveoli, seams frazzled
outside grey matter. You’ll know
once checkered in soil and jaundice.