Fibers (Cubism)

Pt. 1

We are
I mean
I am popped up pockets of air
I am holes held in stacks of cracks, brittle and falling
I am the rough crunch
And I see
Black pits,
White, gold, crusted brown—burnt beige, off-colored, lumps
And faces.

Unhand me, hand me that cracking clutter
Of grain, of seeds, of meat from grain, of meat
From seeds—
Unhand me, pockets, dense—
Unhand the Universe,
The dry walls, the black, the punctured cracker.
Me. I mean unhand me.

Pt. 2

We are (Rock. Hard/Melting). I mean chipped away,
I am popped up pockets of salt and air and salt in air
And coughs and gasps of air in salt. I see black pits,
I smell the hard tasteless bottom. The way it shuns the tongue,
Erases itself on teeth, in spit, is spit on teeth.

I am licking, I have licked. We lick density—the white salt,
the bitter gold, the brown, crusted crushed beige. I am the rough crunch.
You are the soft sludge I become. We see lumps and faces together. Unhand
My tongue, hand me the teeth to crush that croaking clutter of grain (No one),
Of seeds (We), of meat from grain (me), of meat from seeds (you)
Unhand the universe, the walls of wet and dry, and falls
Parting. The black (I swallow)
The punctured cracker (you).
Me. Hand
Me my tongue. Hand
Me my lips, my mouth, my air

I mean



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