Why do I ask where to go
When caught like the wolf
Who licks an eskimo's sword?
The tree that my parents put me in,
That had too many branches,
Doesn't have so many anymore
But copies of those bloodied blades.
The tallest branches were the first to go;
Those raised balconies in the sky.
Maybe I should wash my clothes
And offer them to that star and cloud contradiction; I only
Make them dirty and they tear at the seams;
They never were too good a quality.
I can package myself away until someone has a use for me.
Yes sir, this coffin will do fine. Or
Should I push my vegetarian flesh
Through a meat-mincer to be sold
As an alternative to peanuts and popcorn?
My shouted beg has dissolved
Into the four walls.