There’s a lime wedge at the bottom of this Shasta cola.
Amaranthine,
I put it.
I’m an autocannibalic
centipede on the receding cement.
Locked up in the dryer again
my legs fit nicely
into this mouth.
When I have collapsed
my pieces down
to their most insignificant forms
Grabbed them from where I keep them—by the gate.
Watch my gait
&Mary’s sleepy body.
I leech out the gas
with my fingers and an infinity scarf.
The clippers and so many teeth spilling out of my face
I can’t help it, I am beautiful every December.
Kneel before the tree.
Soften her with softener; hair, her smock.
I grift the beach
and later, return to my lime cutting.
Here I’m needed. And free.
That’s a pair of old ballet slippers
I’d throw them out but I’d miss them too much.
You find the bleach. It asks you if you know its name.