the soft whizzing sound tickles your tongue,
the heat brushing up against your inner ear,
WHALES break soup in your bowl,
eager slivers of glass kiss the frame,
so enraptured they rip apart the vessels of sight,
all at once and over again, each night
Scooping up clumps of verbiage,
pressing mist into gristle,
rolling angry balls of dough,
squeezing confusion from
pillows of steam and tossing happies
into the sizzle pan
for breakfast joy ceremony.
These little cakes are tagged
with a nounverbword called poetry.
You cannot remove them from the plate
but you eat them all up
and take them home
to serve them to others
with butter corn berry thistles
and a spoonful of adrenaline.
Night brushes off its knees
and wonders about circumspection,
while you wheel back around the block
for another look-see.
Angel torn and scavenged,
you decide it's good
and keep a piece, taped to the mirror
in the small cupboard, back in your old home brain.
You are welcome to return in short space.
We miss you tomorrow.
It is your turn to watch the children die.