Dystrophic

In fizzles the depression melts sheets
Of ovaries, in thistles we trip grumpily
Through the tweed scars, breaking our
Fingers in go lucky fourths, I incline,
I incline the neck a twizzle after the eyes

One zombie tropic look for luncheon
On appeal, mud swivel leg for limp about
The mall, a luncheon of shoppers, a skein
Of filamentary vessels, blood and the scraping
Room, so much wiping and the hands

Just smear it around and around into smiley
Faces. Oh the squeezed out regard their
Appeal as a form of justice for effort, the kind
Of snug toothy relief you get from flossing.