A Metamorphosis for Dinner: Being Rare


In it
grandmotherly girls
with piss teeth
go yelling
in a room of my underwear.
They demand
I explain
this scene.
I cannot.
And in it
a concrete head rises doomily
from a parking lot
to watch children come falling
in their own awful ketchup.
I have already cried
about all of these things already.
But now here, there are curtain people
thus altered,
blue eyebrows,
come-with-me shapes
thus altered,
unwild cameos
pinned on.

The face of that mountain
just reached its hand
into the sea
and ate.
And I came out slept in and netted
and I came out in its mouth
like a dream of meat.



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