"Listlessness is Like"
Looking through a waterfall, the colors swirl
together like caterpillars smeared
like oil paint across the pavement.
Clinging to the center of a tornado,
bark and doorknobs and ligaments
turn to anthill sand and exfoliate those still living.
Riding on blender blades while torn photos
and ink scribbles and long-expired milk fuse
together into window-sealant paste.
Tasting hints of mold in the first bite of bread
like a new grain or seed added. Swallowing
raw beef since you already have E coli.
Building an igloo just before a rainstorm, watching
each drop shatter your eggshell walls, the fortress
deserting you to join its element.
Plastering over cockroaches, their feelers
twitching beneath. Growing dandelion seeds
when the wind is your wallpaper.