A mailbox doesn’t change what it takes in.
The mail arrives if crumpled in integral state.
I wrap what I take in
and ject it out objectified.
This pleasure is a mighty wine
to turn the outward in, unfurl it
realigned until the corners match
my corners. I do so without thinking
in my thinking. Who is alert enough
to watch the corner while it vamps and shudders
repositioning the being hall as bright and deep
or fantastically dismembered
walls of spitting animal?
The food inside my breast
needed a needer.