Monday, August 31, 2009

you're trapped in hot pink, the force-field
that you bought with the last
of your clothing. You thought
you'd like it here, but you keep
moving like a leaf while big eyes
touch you through a tiny jungle.

And we are the last to couple
in the moneyed world, where
people pay to wrap their own flesh around
their own sneezes, and a last breath.

If I'm the last skunk on our walk,
let me see a last pustule of star,
and extinguish, my tiny feet, my
short eyes, stepping weightless
off the scale, half-remembering.

The end atop depth, purple-black,
never descending.

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