We are creatures of prudent stitches

stuffed to stillness: black currants,

puppet buttons, unfathomable tides.

Patchworks of fluid and dark hands.

We slosh. We are full. We are poised.


I spread my neighbor’s flustered aorta

on my nutty morning toast, buttering

quiet guts with envy and wholesome

hearts. We became artists in this way.

Cannibals. Rancid sculptures. Poised.


Later, I’ll squelch my own shadow

like jelly bean crawlers. Exquisite

exoskeletons sprout crooked light

in berries from neighboring teeth.

Their jaws are set. We are poised.


Our hands lie still.

Guts. Jaws. Still.

We are poised.

At least.



Cortices trail your shadow,

umbilical tastes left intact.

We develop from formulas

to recipes. We begin to jelly.


Lips fall from putty smiles. Nobody

sets. I melted for winter. You cook


cobweb smirks through bricks

like brown sugar: that ethereal

clanking when we clatter

like dropped lollipops,


how jawbreakers giggle

through vending machine intestines.


I’m made from homebrewed indulgence

and caramelized roadkill: bones jut forth

from bastardized earths

like sucrose mountains

peaked by broken teeth.


You are slimy with the gum of tomorrow.

Go home. This world infects your mouth

with mushrooms,

your tongue post-

marked by tires.

Unsavory Harvests

Spice is seined from frowning earth

into loaves of flavor and celebration.


Microscopic abandon

is grated from dermis.


Sap has hardened. Cinnamon bark

yips wakened morsels down edges


of my geometric shadows:

rot, you unshapely ellipses.


Our roots expanded. They chipped

the fruit bowls. Medicate on ginger.


Our processes are wintry.

We’ll ripen out of season.


We solidify. Crumble. They tasted

so stale. We peel so softly. Shame.