sometimes a bucket of skulls stares at me
through the walls from where it sits
in the other room. i don't want to endure
like a candle in the back of a raccoon's throat.
but the thing about bodies is there will
always be a new one. i hope my next body 
is a bowl or a spoon. so much depends upon
a mouth's worth of blood. i stop at a gas station
between here & heaven & eat in my car. 
talk to god who hides in the glove box.
at the end of the day there is just the river
& even she doesn't know what her next throat is.

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