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Will you further fragment me into
the suburban sinkhole
over a bed of humans shaking in self-worship —
made
made
of a
whose #ve petals
uncle, self-proclaimed chief, we are having no fun cutting dice under yarn seas, no longer
we laugh, no longer do we make stars from cut willow trees at dawn for placebo sons
following wreckage towards the bitter strands of
I am nothing under the stars
I am a container made to burst without such a tether
I would and I would make nothing happen under the #rst frost
that sound it makes for the fruit
never came
incapable of movement,
endlessly to pull the choke starless violet
mouth “uncle”