Day Three.
A metaphor exists in your place.
Thinking of Rosa and Rosa on the tiny plane
flying over Ferguson.
The Midwest generalizing bumpy clouds.
IPad.
I nausea.
I vomit.
A white woman throwing up in the seat 9A into the paper bag.
A metaphor exists in motion.
No one could help her as she vomited.
We all just sat there helpless.
My wife of decomposers has brown skin.
She visits me among the forms.
Lichen says accept what is and break it down.
I sought my soul among the books and he was reading.
In summers beside, they abide.
They sit-in yards and rooms listening to words.
They smoke hand-rolled organic weeds.
Wildly gesturing they take the grief smoke into their bodies.
The revolution isn't coming very fast, they breathe.
Here are the durable goods online,
our phones made by slaves, our satchels made of soft cow.
During they can't stand it how to live.
Skin in the yards.
Life forms.
Species on stucco and bark.
Lobes on fences like old sentences.
Shield and speckled breaking down progress,
breaking down holes of ships at port.
Near tiny foxes in the woods.
Passing through the organisms breaking things down.
Flavopunctelia in the lacerated dusk.
Oh, worlds that are and aren't, that is and isn't a metaphor.