the sun has a look that would curdle my ilk

and a cape of motor oil,

of greasy finger prints.

the recipe says to pour off the excess;

cook by the book, yet i


do you think

if the world becomes bright as eggshells

it wouldn’t

still be too dim to see?


hie noon, an interview

with a moon fat butter pat on a pancake too cold to melt

and ask,


are you glad yet you’re someone else?

or are you angry you’re yet someone?


hours will fill up your nostrils,

calcify your cavities.


and time again.

nothing ever falls asleep;

it just rises again on the gasoline celeste.