Hastened to sleep, diminishing
in the continuum of privilege.
What matter meets the sweetness
in bloated lungs so filled with gloating?
The metamorphosis jingles
and I can feel this tingling in my fingers.
Can they feel it too? Can they feel
the cool blue waves of restlessness
purring through the heat?
An accident is happening
but draped in calculating flesh.
Unspoiled sessions of rectitude
plying their focus. Several of us,
silly putty saints, tainted underwater.
The high road of false dichotomies.
I stretch my feelers
looking like an insect tree,
hypothesizing with strays as the meat
loosens from my garish bones
and shimmies to the floor.

-r. miller

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