Prose & Poetry

I eat Triscuits out of the box One already in my left hand while I finish

There is no tidying up of the animalthat is the human soulYou once told me when

In my constant cry for a mind’s cleaving and the panting fear of my own corpse’s

Even the sky passes through her now,  vault of undifferentiated space, container of the uncontained form

Will we be buried in this bed? And would we mind it if we were? Who’s

A series of trap doors led to my entry Into an evil funhouse I fell, no

Which coastline will catch that lighthouse beam? Where is the shore to make a landing on