What I need is to escape into the material,
the way of cinderblocks and bones, but even
the lint in my belly bears a fragment of abstraction.
What I need is to ditch metaphor and disappear
into an actual coffee table starry with watermarks,
have Eloise or Raul stash me in the cosmic storage unit
to be feasted on by nothing, cloaked only in dust.
Hell yeah I want to jam up against it: 70s pleather sofa,
purple plastic pencilbox stuffed with Bic ballpoints,
a single denim vest.
Like a dad with a duffel he’s kept pact
so long the Tommy Bahama shirts are worn
to mothshit, pigment faded like guano or white
sandy beaches of perhaps Morocco,
I am almost ready to leave myself.