Lunch On His Breath

hear a whisper in a door
open and break is over with
lunch still on his breath, his

boots shake the floor and creak
sleepless entrails of air stuffed belly of
a growling location, no

one is allowed in, nor
more details on the
whereabouts of hamburgers or what
kills the heart quicker than

taking life from a magazine coupon and
cutting it to the counter-guy in a manner of half-smiles
and smirks of the other-half of the counter-intuitive side, below
the skin side of the brain, where

darkness prevails secrets of bottomless appetite, eating
the ends off of fall
and her decaying autumn orange bloom, a russet
corset of flanging mollusks pause to
retrieve their bodies

from the alcove of shapes above each synaptic discharge
altruistic within range of considered trust-vibrations, which
ring and tone and sound quake stones from depths of reality no
one can see, as the

ears are snap-shots of instant grief, whispers
adhere to the corners of the cone and slice their perpendicular tries to fit
the exact portion of their scopes, allowing
triangles to temporarily dislocate from their edge and allow a softening gentle
roundness to administer cohesions of orange juice and cloudless-scissors to let

rainfall and others talk of radio song
as the day disappears beneath a carrot in a rabbit patch full of tomatoes, the grown-up
wearing his lunch to nap-time finally exhales, and
relief—

forged in the mists consume instant memory, circulating
round frontal lobe persistence of chipping at topics till they become statues, he
finally

collapses without shoulders

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2 thoughts on “Lunch On His Breath

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