Lyric drags us
along, nose-hooked
as cattle, a falsetto

hovers over
the stockyard,
a film of ash

runs through
the projector
where we gather,

a tabla, to feast,
roll the footage
of a bean sprout

uncoiling its neck
and beak, still

in the eggs,
let’s have eggs
for dinner,

we keep making
ourselves at home
in our fright,





lead the ponies
by gunpoint
to orchards

to see their horse
necks reach into
the branches,

nose for sugars,
sacrament of an apple
of an eye

of a muskrat
licking its filthy
paws clean,

when sated,
a slippage
hovers over us

like a deafness
where we thrum
and kite and apex,

until hunger,
our flume
of avarice,




our awful child,
checks our
unspooling string

with a hooked
thumb, narrows
beady eyes

on us, and starts
winding back in,
burying us again

under suckling
fig stuffed
birds and fish

tripe  stewed
in tortoise
and the sticky

of split fruit piled
and furred over




with locusts, their
methodology vs
ours, roll footage

of a meringue
oxidizing through
the forest surrounding

us, a tabla, holding
our rust punched
tins where dark

and sugars yeast
and fruit, a churning
scrim of infernal

insect wings
and wills slipping
against the metal,

and we feel it,
necessity, against
our palms,




and as a multitude,
we narrow
our eyes, bring

the fetid whole
to our lips,
and we drink.