angrily eat a potato

Angrily Eat a Potato

"We’re two happy whoremasters,” Beaver said, but although

a man put knives into his body—his legs, his belly, his chest, his neck--

remember the name of the insurance company, but they call

the gored ruin of his empty eyesocket

sleepy in spite of the voices tumbling around

the dark-red stables with their fresh piping of white paint

with packed snow around the roof-lights. Being arrested

had begun their perhaps inevitable change into a bright,

rumble of the plow, strong enough to vibrate the pictures on

everything you suspect, everything you theorize

was a fireplace, a stone chimney, an oak dining table.

The second helping just didn’t seem to taste good.