Bodies answer questions rudely.
I think blue is the color of sleep but maybe
When I walk through the yard, I touch white cotton
sheets. Drying in a light breeze.
The world has linings.
Linings aren’t the same as meanings.
Then I walk back to the house and swallow
a mouthful of wasps.
Wasps shift me plainer / fewer grades on a
terrain hewn of gradients.
[ Temper / emotional acoustics. ]
I want the carpet to be sick and quiet and just
be a carpet.
Saying: walk up the stairs and swallow
your light strobe.
The wasps bat and flit their wings inside me.
They disparage my windpipe.
What I am beholden to and what holds me.
The wasps fly in circles around my
heart. Or, what I
paint inside my head, which is a
screaming red lanyard.
Self-grief isn’t just for fools–lift yourself.
Everybody’s not sick and then every-
body gets sick or in car
accidents and then everybody dies.
The coffee inside my mouth–warm as a bullet.
Explodes the heart.
There was a girl I knew with a tough
silver tongue who
stepped on wasps.
Then she gorged on their corpses.
This was a life attempt.