2 crooked veneers
plunge the mattress surface.
From behind, totalitarian misery
devours, enjoying weeds and thorns.

I’ve found a handbook for the lonely,
the ingredients are spiteful.
But, neatly folding the wise man’s blouse
I lean in to smell the pages.

Now ants come surging under the door
in kaleidoscopic waves, swelling with desire.
There isn’t time to show them
but we’re seeping through the callico.

Suck, suck, suck! Then, a crunch
of shifting, empty logic; a mosaic of time
and need has overheard your shadows -
the tangled vines enjoy you now.