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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