Brutal Oatmeal

Brutal oatmeal and crows,

unafraid. A rollicking

good grocery cart

was left out in the rain.

Now they’ve ordered a wheel bearing

biopsy. No point in trying to climb

out of this labyrinth—out

of the hedge is out. Without

is the place to be, nothing

is the thing to wear and fingers

are the muck to roll in:

dog massage, lavender.

Internal organs appear like Mighty

Wurlitzers rising by the stage—the whole

quivering bloody mass of them. 

A subcutaneous fear gland

secretes tears at red lights,

upon closing the book.

The sun rises and sets

pathologically. Snail up

with an anthology of weeping. 

Shine the headlamp apple

by apple into the wormy

tree. Some are hidden

in the shadows of crows. The light

knocks down the rest, caught

by yellow-green stripes of the skirt.

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