Maybe we’ve been put together like faded bouquets / of pelvis fossils & rivulets of gazpacho blood.
balance me best you can, still my voice will trickle
yet the ground / soon dips, and we are giving way to/these truths the deeper we tread.
bombpops and icees and frozen guppies with / apples in their pin-sized stomachs made homes / of the shelves in our garage freezer.
The sun is there / and not there, / dotted with the / shadows of hands.
Lavender lengths of satin and / silk hovering like hummingbirds / or breeze-filled whales,
The stove in the kitchen is never flaming; / perhaps this is an act of revenge.