A tightly bound rope of words uncoils, 

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 

for convenience 

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.