Days are short, move into a skull like
paper flapping in the wind.
Below an ear, from his pouch,
her own weather howls.
Radio stations start to jump
from one pouch to the other.
This gray sweeping of this nuking.
The phone cord would be
better if it was smooth.
His cortex's flex leaves spots on its own
stem when dry, looks a little cheap.
Her zebra thorax whittled from
the former plank of stem cells.
Dreams about boredom as
purveyors of something pruny.
Dross arising with a chattering.
The alchemist's snog's laser's faux
crumbs occluding jinglingly.
Vermin slithering wooden-eyed.
Stumbling when hungry. A
too upright primordial soup.
We notice how the wires hanging
out of it everywhere diminish over time.
That worm meat had made us
feel less alone. His silly keychain is
irreparable only after she
is widowed. With a visceral, melted
plastic sort of trailing-off beginning
the connection process.