Poets

Back when my head like an egg in a nest was vowel-keen and dawdling, I shed my slick beautiful and put it in a basket and laid it barefaced at the river

With her one horrid eye persistently unfastened, a vigilant bird watched my grandfather during the Great Depression use each evening of one whole year to wander his corn fields knowing this world is just one pig after another

As for living to the side of yourself like a pile of rice in the vicinity of the fish (as for being an eye-self hanging above a body-self content with separating cowboy stuff from G.I. Joe stuff from Batman boxer shorts): yeah, I've been there, I know what you mean, don't get me started. There were, in fact, ten rooms in one house. And dust and a couch and dirt and lamps. I was thus the body of the two hands and the body of the feet becoming somehow the body primarily of the mouth demanding bleach. It's not that I was pitiful. It was more like: who else would eradicate this rotten scattering of skin flakes and hair and spiders and such? Who else would swab the spit? So sure it was wholesome at the river when I was a new mom but creepy is the point to live for the wiping of boots and the soaking of jackets with my mouth open and my poor tongue sticking out like I was hoping to comprehend what was wrong with being mostly as I say just the eye part of something soaking in the grimy particles while all the other girls went on being actual girls and I'm sorry to have to say this since I know it's upsetting but that's the way it was; I appreciate your asking come again real soon be careful watch your step.