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.
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