boy finds
a plastic
fingernail
and suddenly
he’s a rat
surgeon
washing
hand puppets
for god
in the birthplace
of buzzard
fiction
invented as a way to impress pain
/ had to pass
through sleep
miracle and forgery, mom’s funeral
says he been seeing things after they happen
/ aims to bury
for free
bomb squad
dogs / thinks hell
if a scarecrow
can miscarry
in kite
country…
our mom
to alien
you need
some clothes
/ scoop roadkill, look
marionettes
in the mouth, read
to the healthy
from a pop-up
book
on birthmarks, yeah
we spit
in the dark
let god
fish
to find
in the moments
after
the vision
that yes
you’ve eaten
everything
in sight, that a baby
yours
or not
is asleep
in a somersault, that you worshiped
prayer and fell
for hunger’s
childhood
in a barbershop
one hears
off
with his head
must be
slow town (this)
with dreamy
approximations
of coasting
wheelchairs
and uphill
bug swallowers
believing
it is hidden (it)
like a fishhook
in stomach’s
wig
/ horns make zero sense to the boy tossing horseshoes at a rain puddle
