Mostly its wondering if the deposit has cleared

and will the chicken last another night

while our attenuated dream-selves

perform regularly-scheduled acts of erotic spontaneity

and inhabit the bodies of the one-percent.

The neighbors dont seem to do much except smoke and occasionally

order pizza at 11 p.m. while up the street,

between the Anabaptists and the aging hardcore bassist/IT guy/dad,

the female bagworm moth dies immediately after the act of mating,

her larvae to burrow into her corpse/cocoon and emerge in spring (the world

in spring: slow-lidded, incredulous, the half-thawed river scabbed

with ice) through which desire, being deciduous, moves

mainly backward, while grief is holographic and moves

forward by twos.  Certain constants remain: water will always

seek its level; the child asks, not unreasonably, How can a fish poop

if it doesnt have a butt? the storehouse of the body, by turns

gutted and razed, as the rednecky/hot survivalist guy

on the Preppers show shrugs at his stockpile of freeze-dried nutritional paste

like, Its not tasty, but itll keep you alive.

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