"What right do you claim,
to mug so little
and swallow yourself,
to make us **** and beg
to find your
thinking guts,
as if you contain
any multitude
that wouldn't fit
on this table?"

"And you?
What right?
To slosh yourself
clumsy,
over paid-for
digestif,
to gorge the air
with your tongue,
and pass on lean,
to leave so drunk and ask
me
to clean my table of you?"

Between the borders
lie bubbling mires,
thick but porous,
pockmarked and soft.

A chorus of croaking warts,
"Slither through my friend;
take back whatever
is yours,
but please
please
please
add us to your maps."

Should we see
at the speed of grass,
find it stretching
good morning
at the growing heat,
we would notice it pulsing
and step more softly.

My clocks unwound,
I tell time easy,
by the angles of shadows
piercing
my floors.

I let them point me
to how to be
next,
follow them in circles,
chew lip askance
at whatever sun
I'm slowly crashing.

The Greeks made flaws fatal,
but now they merely
tire us,
until we slowly resign
ourselves
to our organs.

We'd be better
to be worse.

I used to find freckles
and write them down.

Now that I weather
like wood,
I find I prefer
weathered wood.

I should be surprised,
but I don't do that anymore.

When the full glint of doubting
came by
this morning,
I didn't hear it knock.

I was busy breathing
and counting angles
in the best air of the day.