As it happened, I was twirling a cauliflower floret,
lost in Lewis’s wardrobe of pallid trees,
considering my country’s longing for homogenized milk
& bags of tube socks from Walmart,
which felt cancerous. What came to me like a surprise
snowfall in the soft evening of a snow globe,
one has to pinch salt and sprinkle in the palm,
repeatedly, especially when the temperature in mother’s
trailer
has begun to drop. In this way, after your Constitution fades
you’ve your own hourglass and no one else to blame.
an abandoned chest of roistering literature for the drunk and rampant reader.
drunken library 