Monday picture frames, Tuesday haircut,
the robot's eye scans my cancer
and pins me down to garlic tables.
The gleaming ocean gathers me seamlessly
and spreads me out,
a fine ash whirlpool shape
tendrils of cumulus oil.
Glass buckets of bovine hearts
spilling down the theater steps.

Butterfly wing desktops
flipping like fake fingernails
closets hallway deep
leaning gravestone walls.
Cinnamon vinegar torso singing
swinging a long wet rag.
Crouched like a hose
on the fire escape
a waiting cat's mouth
she brings me milk
for my raging tea.