the shifted thing held its brother as if falling.
The calendar, beginning a walk towards its foods.
Various. Explicit nourishments.
The day chewing its back legs. Nothing better to do.
And the small white head of sea creature, the tongue extending into your mouth.
You gasped, but mainly for show. Apply yourself, it said.
This is Tuesday.
Nothing is asleep.
And the eulogy:
A series of backs feeding.
Each a participant in minute deforestations.
The fields no longer brimming, but still eloquent.
The countries are small facilities,
With so many needing so much.
My knees are huge.
I should build something on them, something to last past me.
The shifted thing held its child as if dying.
The owl in his crinolines, singing
Heather Napualani Hodges