A precious fluid The lamp swings back and forth, raking its yellow light across my unwashed head. I tried to hold sleep in like a precious fluid, something I needed to breathe with; instead, cats howled through the morning. This goodie case contains all our shame. I make sure to eat your paprikas as soon as I jump out of bed, to slather my morning breath with onions. Without coffee, cigarettes taste brittle, acrid: paper dissolving to blister on the chafe of the lips. At the height of seeing these angles, seraphim measured out holograms of lovers long dead to sunshine, long morose like wetly-packed bread, and I laughed while tied to the bed, mussing softly her insides with a plugin or with messy code. How many times has something stopped working? Before these doors rattle open, along the slipperest of buttery etchings, tubers tie our eyes together just below the soil, and bulbs burst.
Crazed with light, and not
harder than pert alms.
Yeast tempers our blood
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