decompose with me, potates
we wil be pommes de terre ensemble
In the sterile kitchen of my spotless mind,
it's a womb, it's a cradle

for sale, still in package,
gimme gimme please: hangover hashbrowns —
My lips keep dancing — with maple syrup.
The one-woman Teflon Fork Orchestra. Each.

Kitchen or cadaver, it's a constant battle
of daylights. I'm so full of syllables.
Zugunruhe. My mouth says 'land' but
my eyes are still searching for the ocean.