Peach-splattered sourdough matrix baby
knocking around in the people computer
without a team of assisting bodies,
without a rug of spent tears,
with no interior bending,
a spent door chaser,
a long wire going mute across the satellites.

Transparent bag stacks of rejected food,
ant farm bogged in gasoline
sinking away from
the high totems of bagel.

Chlorine eyes out of the path half-dark
pushing a wet hand of signs,
sketching on wrists
what music springs from the spine,
rock walls on my eyebrows
her service provider
vacuuming salt from the tabled flesh
thinking bloated micro-macrocosm
from what erupts.