Ouroboros Speech
No
where
road trip
with you, Mind.
You’ve been one to blame
for the crinkled maple leaves
lining the inside
of my mid-
Sunday
skull.
Still,
sun tastes
eight o’clock
with the window shades
pulled to; “My Smile is A Rifle”
slips
cold
down my
turntable:
slithering garter
snake twining me to a scale-skin mix.
This poem is about:
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: