The days be haunted with his shit: homewreck-
er teakettle, a breakfast mash sloppy.
The rot the room suddenly looks bigger;
a portion of this food will go to waste.
Years blink by like a night light, the beast waits,
his voice—that tired, dragging man made small:
little turning violets, his voice does sound
human, wolfed by category 5 storm.
Bizarre his web: wet lips, baby-big eyes.
He leads an army in his thumping heart.
Calculator, compass, boxed-meal Matthew,
his movements like mustard seeds—jumping, hot.
October is a home he lived inside.
October like a trap, death be roses.
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