Plastic pinwheels flashed like metal
tinsel-tickled flowers folded
over. Dark strangulation of cloud covered sky:
Sunset pink nylon scarf that smelled
of must at my throat.
You pulled the gizzards from a frozen chicken
I could no longer look at pimpled yellow flesh:
The crack of bone, body halved by your blade
steel wedge, your smile
split skin—gristle emerging from the fold.
I was not prepared for this no-picnic picnic,
nor for sailors nor cyclists nor circus freaks
flying flags lost in the crowded firmament.
But this sphere is an image,
whether it be solid, liquid or gas
a holographic bubble densely curling
under the weight of its no-substance surface
ready to bust.