i held a peach carcass in my hand:
the wet, warm body above the streets
where rain-soaked cars flung themselves
like missionaries across the rain-soaked plastic globe,
the one that once lived in my mother’s attic,
before i destroyed her.
i put my bloody fingers in my mouth
and watch the flesh drip like rain to the cement
where people scuttle over sidewalks
like ugly de-evolved crabs, always quoting Shakespeare,
the original printing of it kept in my grandfather’s attic,
before i put him away.
i am eating a raw plum
i am very still in the busyness
the people below me do not even look up to see
what an odd little monster i am.
the last pavilion 