I arrive at the bake sale with my short arms.
A TV’s gas is held in by skin. A spider traipses by
carrying her false ballsack. Suddenly, there are sounds.
Or one sound that contains many others,
synonymous with ambiguous air’s bathroom-roar.
To a facial tic, the bozo bug bite is innate, subverting
every vantage point or slightly lowering its edges,
as if looking through glacial ectoplasm or large
suction marks. Mouthwash stops in tiers, resembling
an inflammation cropping up like a blurring barber pole.
The air, though a completely dead repository, will
now make a side wind: one must sit in its silky
underarm caress – fluffing up like a distasteful smell
at zero gravity. Puke edible peroxide a little in your
mouth and sniff back splinters. The air still absorbs,
with uneven pull. Eyes interlock like a disappearing
crease. It does not feel snuggly. It feels like separation.
On dusty beds sleep forms craters. Vacuums caulk
these craters mildly.