STRAIGHT WRINKLES

shin splints in my animus. a few cobwebs
to hang Polaroids
at a rakish angle, with my fifth of gin
taking a shot at the apple on my head…
with pigeon eyes and rain for teeth.
a complete dyslexion
of prayers with antlers
and no answers.

straight wrinkles on the face of an ancient mist.
a plume of periscopes breaching an indifferent sea
with all the eyes of a cyclops
and a submarine
for a drowning
house.