Broken plaster plays reckless in the heath-cliff
The sandpaper’s majesty was a fix
& barbles rifted papa’s keyed liver on the table with the revolver
Feeling the mark of the table top collective boots
Ringlets of yellow fire cracked sun cakes—
a wolf on the hunt for the opal fox
Both are poured in wax as the thief flew out the window.
War Along the Faults
I’m sorry to tell you but we’ve been mapped
A war of Nebraska wanting to lie over Kansas—
We caught the drooling Michigan peach spit.
So a fiddle jar plucks honey on a string
I sell it for twelve dollars
You need to yield more.
A rosemary bush plants its egg
Tenderizing the pork mogul with her giants hooks
I like the symmetry of our days
As if angles were never just lines.
Pressing Into View
We crapped soot in the audio
Tell me how long it is that you’ve been with two left ears?
A skid milk drops cluster into a fruit basket
As a basket of fleas fled for warmer moons.
Our chins catching the drooling Michigan peach spit
A carp cannot access the key to unlock you,
But there’s a window in your stomach
& it’s marked in bars
I lay my head all in your simple
Victoria Sroka is unemployed, Polish, and lives in a seedy basement apartment in Chicago. One day she hopes to fulfill her dream of writing poems in a hot air balloon. She will be blogging at Mrs. Peacock in the Conservatory soon.