I am tired of playing
death’s white clerk,

I will stand in the glove closet
eating an orange.

Ten fat bulbs acrostic
to the warren wards.

Segment: you are twin
to endless sisters

but this buttered vein
is yours, these strings

parting your head
officious as batons.

Chest puffed with documents.
This wet parade ground

mucking my hand,
it almost cheers me:

not to be the lone
creation formal unto sludge.

Why, to be imparted
with mouth like a clock

that points itself out:
my word, my word?

The orange warms
in my hand.

Runnel of pepper,
palm-glow, squalid—

less than light.
Stirs still some crepitant

waking to gold
as to a molar filling

dislodged, aswim
on a vacant pillow.

It is 3 AM.
The telemetry insists.

Around me they seed
their small bitten flaws,

the pulses there are.