My Luxurious Escalade
by Ally Harris
A herbarium’s just disruption and volcanic menopause. Planetary against loss, their movement mushrooms fungus gnats and becomes what baffled a phone dribbler who wakes in a breakfast of no spiders, most human relationship barrier, universal iPad of root rot. Rather than bathe in guaranteed bees, destroying erodes children (a poetry itself). The perfect ailment is head down while crossing the street. Does time feel alone? We laid in a well-roasted cobb of summer, ashed and atrophied in any fool’s murder for comfort. A lobe of clouds phoned earth in livid pink. Crows natured on what gave us our safety in numbers, their material we grew into gardens of contagion. So we take our degree of fame and nest into its juices, waiting for the stalk to evolve blades just a bit sharper. Time oozes off its slip. Our being waters time. Echoes gob across the cemetery spit comets to cement, soft as the seat of my car, as thick & sluggish as the Earth’s last river.
