A Good Friday/Easter Sandwich
This
world is a room
perfect
to
run screaming
from:
how
do we
not?
How
do we
abide,
straining
to hide
the
walls
under
pictures
of
pictures
of
pictures of pictures,
venturing
out
only
to buy
furniture
and frames:
sequentially
cadenced,
staring
through the sun
always
at
dusty angles:
twitching
under the moon,
gravid
as windfall fruit,
in
dreams
of
an uncornered being
coiled
‘round
some
polar secret
and
vertical center:
yet
chewing,
chewing
and reflexively chewing:
How?
