Demons sleep in the deep white,
a place to rest while
laundry drowns without ultimatum,
while dismembered chickens
swell in heat – sticking to
bits of parsley that grew this year.
People expire faster than milk.
If it isn’t there taste, it’s their
noises or gestures
or lack of reflection.
Kids are running off to school,
I leave the bread in the toaster.
One more day, slice open the demon,
crawl inside
guilt grows off walls
shames eats at intestines
all the people go, go, go
off to let me sleep in the deep
white.
