You really embody         trance acquisition
no sex in French sun

asking for frequencies         of bears at the campfire
eating eggs in a high chair         as your fossils slip.

We leave long to signify         big winter breasts
a warming of loneliness         the skeleton sweater

aproned in blades.          A man named Thane follows
and swallows our wants

sending commands         through rubber arm bands
the done done done done         of the Mozart effect.

The phones lick as you sleep         in the snowglobe
the spider beside you

draining your ghosts         blood-thick as ketchup.
The crows bring dogtags         our switchboard-blank wrangle

shoulder pads, landslides         your made-up baby.
Six of our ribs         roast in the boneyard

prove sometimes          endtimes
are larger than big eyes         and not so religious.

Sometimes, endtimes      are teen girls who disfigure
our speech.