To Be Twice Plastic

A trouble with images is that they set the gut to tremble in congratulation. Two flounder-shaped bowls with eels for spoons. One salt. One sugar.

He didn’t say please with manners or please please with desperation like a bitter sprig to the fiery night.

Watching yourself swath your eyes in skin is difficult. I’m the executioner’s mask that whispers to the head. Don’t let go. And how often have I been a convention without knowing it. And how was I supposed to know.

For at least one person we’re called the second person.

Scrying is only a recombobulation of reflections. To at least one person everything after is epilogue.

He will. Someday. Sleepwalk into my dinner. The luminous strip of belly through his bathrobe will shiver in the evening air. But I’ll see my face reflected in it.

The elegant dogs are tonguing glass figurines.

On the third shelf. An X to be prince of. The kind of X that razors sewn into the duvet were stropped against. A second X for you to burn.

My next question was to be. Who tastes as much slither as sugar. But the dogs have given their voices to the warp of reproduction.