Not coda, or in essence leftovers,
Ever infringement to the pointed hand
And the “mystery Box” of the refrigerator’s
Archived entombments, not the music
Which bookends a decent mood or sleeping
Habit. But this: vomit tail.
A gruesome end of wagging
Grown into a whisper of swishy
Lung music, the ur-ur of spices
In a toothy room. Tooth-pot short and
Stoutly resolved to weigh down
The frame’s support structure, house
Ur-house inhabitable of decayed food
And rodent vestments, pray hymn A-phlegm.
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