Ross Robbins

Soft apple, your worminess concerns me.

After all the ways I have pictured sickness

how can I help but empty out?

I chasmed hard when, undesired, I split like

splits. Immaculate defenestrated when elbow’s

crook was robbed of peach. Sinister!

In loosely gathered wishes find the pattern

of the whole. A hot plume of ash: stubborn

pursuit of someone else’s ideal of happiness.

Planetarily speaking, I’ve a jones to CO2

bloomingly, rabid animal. Increasingly, American

cheese wrappers dot the landscape. Plastic flowers.

Little red pickup with no taillight, purple jacket

with a pink hood. A life defined by its objects.