Self-reference, with codeine eyes,
gazing limply, molding thighs,
Of chickens left from febrile murmurs,
Paths not taken, lunch uneaten.

Furred in white and blue below,
As if for all men, as if the fruit endures,
Proserpine spoils in the under,
Wrapped in plastic for years unnumbered.

Dvarsha, D'zem
A card, a murmur
What is the sound but
the cactus! lurking in the
freezer. dried and burned
it whispers with the
lamb and flowers.

sashimi is left
the seaweed of lost winters
stinks of the ages

At last the bleach where Poe boy festered,
The goblin fruit is bagged, discarded.
Pretty women, now gone to slumber.
Beneath the surface is minimal,
Outside, in dumpsters, Coleridge maunders.