And Called It Milk 7 Poem by Thomas Fink

Ruined again:
your big elbow
was like an elevator.

I lost my book in the mud
and broke this arm.

Rotten teeth
fall out of my head.
Many things on the boat of screaming
because we're so asthma.

And you run out from Minaguchi's dangerous
sculpture as the wind
throws its face.

This milk will wake me?
Tastes like Albuterol.
Tylenol.

My mom spoke yes, and I said yes.
She pushed down some buttons and said
bye-bye.

Goodnight ruin;
the leaf is going to sleep in its own place.