these momentary, wait, no, these lasting, somehow, ours,
the picnic table perched at the tip of the waterfall.
And now that nobody knows what to do,
the unsure have taken over the earth.
They might as well come over the horizon
with whatever weapons they want, and attack me
as I am impaled on a row of long pink spikes,
that I requested, that I had made, using
the movements of other creatures, which flow
from thumb-tips and those buds that taste sourness
at the end of the tongue. Come for me goodness,
come for me badness, come for me ecstasies
and doldrums, come to me all I possess
and all that I can never possess.

I dunno if the flock is fragmented or regimented;
I hope I never did and never will. My tongue-feet,
over the long pavements, tracing,
the mucus of theirs that I hope
to be acidic to all infrastructures,
where will they smear next? Good morning
murderers, good morning healers,
good morning to the shared paralyzation
in you both, as we help to eat this moment up entirely,
only to spit it up as grasses all over.