Plastic by the Time
Tongue cupped, I don't care
even at all about polar bears.
I, like laundry, work. Lint unpaid
paves on as if a road. Invent
the borders. Avert the fold in on
the self's project. That's the coupon
that builds the greenest circle
out of every dry-forked pea. If not
nonfat, did we even whim a hair
pillow and all, from caring more.
What if my fingertips are the world
that I refrain from, caramel.
Then the beak retreats.
Then the dirt didn't know itself
how digital it really was, now
how when it erupts cloudless
there are many squares scattered
there are distinct dirt red patches
which fling up across the solid
which fling up against the blue
of receiving an imessage
of not wanting any green.