Just when you think
he seeks something normal,
he screams, “Jesus. Oh, God!”
and violently applies
a box of crayons to paper
set upon a hot plate.

Or is that the middle
and this piece seeks a beginning
and, in time, an end?

It could be the fishheads
are something she steers into,
confusing them with fishtails
as the car glides past the ice
filled cart at the open air market.

No matter how hard
my foot hits the floor,
I am the passenger
and the breaks don’t engage,
so my eyes widen
and I brace myself,
but the car comes
to a stop just short
of the curb.

It tastes like middle to me,
and no amount of typing
will bring it to the end or find
a start this far down the page.

What can you do, but stop reading,
because nothing from this point on
makes much sense—

keep between elbow wrestles
crossed block sidewalk gaps
heaviness like your empty bells
burlap stucco light bulbs
lurid animal sweet hips goodbye

just before its butchering.