Installation for a Sick Body

           The sky is one small side of finally
Fatter chances hope evacuates,                      slow as any
Big unhappy river ushered down the aisle

On a bobsled of scabbed elbows & dead zone.

At the preyground:
                                historical carousels, bruising
Where tremendous & fell childforms upend
The byproducts of soft war: O hard sell.

All my fissibles missing, all my bends on the mend.

Door: be for these concerned that whoreson horizon
Crazy with sleepless, puckered zeros.

Dopamine, do open. Do be the fallow
Hour plumped to one last thing.
I’ll cut off my arms to fit—I’ll starve my heroes.
I’ll suffer your serums, your x which, from inside in, exerts its sting.