There are two means:
a. the man drives an older car for years, forgetting his name
b. the pregnant stop, and everyone you pass has noticed
An undoing is said to follow:
someone else’s breath
stales your tongue
As the bleached-white membrane that
finally cohered to some dull hardness,
it could not be
the upper-lip, the brow, or the nose. It only just
tolerated muscularity–fingernails stand
in clear detail
against the inflated rubber membrane.
Seeing this, the skull wiggles two fingers into the nostrils
and shuts its mouth.
Shoebox of photographs–
your garbage bin
has come down with an animal.
I bury my nose in black, fragrant hair
(wet, paper esophagus).
Elsewhere some cool, unraveling flesh
blares the scent of numeration
The blazer illumined
They returned to find
the tree alive
but falling apart
The gnashed cherry center
her cold fingertips
Robert Preslar lives in southern Japan. Currently, he teaches at Kyushu Sangyo University and writes prose. His work has appeared in The Spell For Rain literary journal.
Cover photo: Erin Hayden erinhayden.tumblr.com