Lit in Progress

Reflections of the backward world around the edges of my eyes,
shattering around the frames of my glasses, blending
with the shadows under buildings, park benches, plastic bags
blown against wire fences. The space of the unfamiliar,
smooth is rough and black is green without depth,
food tastes like ballistic ambitions,

people walk back to front and worry that they’ll be understood.
Chefs assassinate, dairy farmers sing show tunes. Jewelry made of plastic
silverware hangs around the necks of upside-down supermodels.

Photographs flutter in absent wind, chattering to themselves
in a scratchy, squeeky language. The earth ebbs, flows, water erodes
into squooshy canyons. Ginger root marches in licentious formation.

Teeth chatter in the gloomy generosity of fractal phobias.