Milk spills from the
carton it pours over the bench onto carpet
the carpet repels
then soaks it up, lips of a hungry white goat.
The moon spills like
milk from the carton over the ink cartridge
ocean. The
ocean moves in waves like a bed of eels.
The caterpillars in
the garden are chomping through leaves
bite by bite they take the soft belly sequencing nature’s code.
Channel billed cuckoos search for unsuspecting nests, their red eyes honing
the navigation
lights of a 747, wing-tips coming into land.
Cracks in the
pavement contain a meander of ants, humidity
rises, the wet hands of
summer. Ants build temples.
We have killed all
the spiders in the house. Not the house spiders,
those
critters are post lenticular.
The
spiders
are
growing fat, fed ripe flies ready to burst; their progeny
crawl
through the mess of web seeking an escape to begin the O
again.
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