sometimes i think my muscles are turning into concrete

a sloth moves slow in my head.

i think about it before i move an inch.

inch worm.

salty eyelids and cappucino breakfast.

i'm here for love.

The Murder of the Blueberries

picked in the dewey morning, placed in basket.

they are round, full, soft, character oozing out.

bought under the sun, contained and lidded, shut in the cold, dark, dungeon;

left there.

the gelid atmosphere creeping close, sinking in, completely inhospitable.

benumbed, the soft fruit become marbles, hard like glass.

claustrophobic in their coffin, caught little cadavers until they are called for,

spooned into dishes, one by one,

a little parade,

placed in the mouth, thawed, crushed, and swallowed.

destruction complete,

the blood of blueberries on my tongue.