The stage slithers to my feet.
Everybody wants their god
to touch me first.
Hot globes of flesh dripping
with smashed brains.
Trays of bright alfalfa
slipping through a cracked door.

Strung-up legs in the eye
of a planted camera.
Vine-spun air winding
around a coffee table,
catching light in skulls.

Walls chalk foundations
with sliding autopilot
zagging the brief skin's
latchkey octopus of fingers
searching attic ribs.