Grey Splatter

I am a partially submerged house wall in the side of a mountain
taking Sunday morning and hiding it in a box of breakfast
a neon flesh-colored and pale window blinking from icon
cracks open roots while it’s roots crack open between a
fissure another fissure lives crawling towards me a spider
smell from beneath the steam, a piece of burnt conversation
toasted in the derailed parking lot, days after a full moon,
in search of scissors to cut off the parachute which binds
submergence to birds and wings of krill and the color of
breaking sidewalks into grey splatter to reveal isolation in the
shadow of civilization as it crawls mental illness with a motorized
leg for a gun and the humans who are a breeze to this college
degree traffic signal with jobs-hats on the other end tattooing
themselves with kids who sweat out ingredients for an inherited
doorway while starvation is a theory and playthings are potentially
viable beside the resurrection of the middle class

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