Instead of Bread
Outside the school balls fall like stones.
I asked you how you found the carnival inside, the
fried foods, the flavored walking of the carnival.
You said that what I think is ugly is a gift, that
throwing coins at ashtrays isn’t wasteful, like
throwing ashtray pennies in the street is.
You typed this all in a letter, fluidly flowered
concertina measures. I read them all day.
The King of Armadillos
The land lauds the matted produce. Um,
you’re such a pretty brown-haired meter-maid
more mineral than a mango, brown eyes that
set all the colors of the mangled fruits and
metals into one copper vegetable in the dust.
Right now I like yellow, but you’re about
to convince me otherwise; a saffron body
does not have a chance. I want to say that
you say that ‘scarring’ is the wrong word, that
the reticulated shell is a necessary addiction
to meet the air so you don’t dry up. I say
I agree while chewing cashews, my poor fingers
shaping a yellowed already-existing acacia branch.