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The accuser brings spoonfuls
of lie licorice wasps-wisps,
shipwrecked hips.

I am aware of my roots,
but lately some kind of
Anonymousness Something

with moose antlers
like fingers has plucked them
from my bones.

I change my garments
with the seasons; I don’t wipe
the cat-hair

from my jacket any longer:
decorum for whom?
an ear of corn or a can-of-corn?

Gravity falls
in love too
with the backside of a rocket’s

firehorn spore.
My concerns are
worn out from a world’s expectations

that have become
like short-hand
on the long-faced writer’s

jagged adjective grunting,
which is like seeing ghosts
only out of visual monotony.