Poem formed of the images on my closed eyelids:

An old log with its own wooden cradle at the far edge of somebody’s lawn, where the forest begins.

Small bear trap, ankle-sized, with a face on it. (Painted nose cone of B-17 evoked.)

A purple flowering plant hard to the touch. Shaped like a popsicle up from the general bush.

& using truth serum as shaving cream. It doesn’t foam. It is like using an astringent, or the vaccine, as shaving cream.


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