I sculpt the missing parts of a dog out
of leftover pizza. He whimpers when I make him eat it.
It’s the custom here, so I try not to
pause when I see youths floating in formaldehyde.
What poetry? I can peel the poetess,
layer by cling-wrap layer.
What’s-Left-Behind speaks. This is
what he tells me:
"Do you want to know how to control
poetry?
Every third day I lose my middle toe.
And on that day I’m sure I’m not a poet."
