On Sunday we gnawed
blood and chokecherry.
The platelet bore
phosphorus to arsenic
and we ate nightshade.
On a colder heath than
one supposed.
Braised boulders in
wizened eye-corner skin,
metal, threadbare Lem.
And this is an anxiety thing,
too, flash of bright red hair;
talons of it. Then we
macerated galloping reams
of numbers ticking up.
What was ground dust
was not dust, but verdurous.
Cataloguing what chlorophyl
strobed back: "green/
green/green/green/green."
Evenings we foundered.
Having rounded some
inanity corner and
doe-faced the grins down,
feigning ignorance
of one another.
As though we were all
clean-shaven, irony gone too.
"Yes." "My, you have
a special that," "I think
you would really enjoy
this record," or, "track of land."
And it's reciprocal!
