These Quaint, Caucasian

spiritualities du jour

eating their own faces

off of pillows, in appropriated lotus

beside broad, cream, french

sunroom doors (they open out

to nothing, forest) licking

their lips, belching

Rumi, hyperpronounced Oms

labored sighs, standing, measuring

out, dicing, eviscerating

fruit

(never come down)

in the whirring thresher.