The breath lands on your shoulder.
Queer-wheeled and all
The world hasn’t stretched into a teardrop
Yet there’s some leftover solace in a brown paper bag
In the break room fridge so help yourself.
Its lower-left quadrant mottled by grease
Or some other non-GMO effluvia
Of the 40 hour week but no tears.
This motif was built on blood and sunshine,
Indigenous plants and a divine work ethic
Predicated on fratricide.
Bees come and go in the garden
Pollinating like fools.
We hew closely to prescriptions
Baiting the bears with earrings made