The slugs come up to the sugarbowl
to see if there's anything left.
I'm sleeping in a rancid hallway
frowning at the flicker over a blanket
when the nubile crackers roll in.
They remove the vacuums
and electric cords, chattering
like disrupted birds.
Their bulbs are all over
the eyelids I keep down.
The see through ceilings lower the sun
on to the greased napkins
and paper lids, our naked limbs.
And all the lights turn to paper reps.