I’m caught in it. The blurring eyes, the head
like wet brick. All the beauty shoveled over me
reminds me of the world I see through slits ~
the daily color of destruction, oily pollen dust
of apathy, the talking daisyheads I’m unsure if
have bodies or how long. Max Headroom did not
suffer allergies but all the same wore shades to hide
his pinprick pupils, pixelated stare past everything
and into nothing. I stare like that. There’s tulips
and azaleas and other flower names I’ve chosen
not to know, the violet somethings in the grass.
It’s all attacking. I mean I know it’s not but yesterday
Danny beheaded a snake beside the porch then left
the pieces in the mulch. I guess letting me rot.