Slicing sweet and slowly
Into this caustic cortex.
Vacant and sort of
Musty since
Winter came, exploding lights.

A frozen, greasy, meat locker dissection,
Slicing slowly, your eyes follow up the
Stringy white legs. Little gym shorts
Like paper bags, rumple and tear.
Hard like venetian blinds, they let the
Light in and so much else.
Old men that have been running for
Days, slowly wasting. When they have
Strayed so far their hair falls out, and
They are left flapping on the ground
Like piles of fish,
Abandoned and avoided.