At bones we
cellphone inside
splinter's selves
waiting for Pluto
to divine
a blushing wig
out of an aperture
of frost
appearing inside a rind
This is when soft snails
can throw a murmur
in pamphlets
when in the digest
a brim sifts its cells
in plasticy shores
and swells a prelude
Gauze stretches from
factories nested
among the pinnacles
An anteater drives up
and admits he loves
windows drinking black
Plaster towns crumble
in the shoulder of the
dead General
Paul
Baumann
