I don’t want to bore you with my addiction

to the minor key that opens every door,

 

but the need peeks its head above water every

so often in you as well, I’d imagine,

 

we are dust dust dust and there’s nothing to return to

but experiments in anabolism and dry coughs,

 

such that sometimes the results-oriented center demands

a little blood and ceremony draped in feng shui ugly,

 

nothing plus nothing plus nothing adds to what, some kind

of sweetness that cuts the edges right off of midnight

 

until it is a sphere, and the human aestheticians go nuts for

roundness, I want to deliver some nightcrawlers pulled

 

out of the muck by their ribbed-for-nobody’s-pleasure heads,

make industry out of the inertia, I will cry and cry and use

 

this project as a sweet excuse, it’s nothing after all, something

in the air, some pungent smell from the cutting board.

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