stillfugue

With slow march,
up to mow the lawn,

I slobber in the kitchen sink,
lift my chin to look out

the window on my tiny
world, to anticipate my chore,

only to see bodies
interwoven, crusted over

with bits of attached,
rotted flesh, tainted or

painted with brown, or
sepia, from Instagram,

and I said, “Those were
the old days,” and I

closed my eyes.

.