slowly but surely
you’ll discover that the truth
is everything will break you
little by little
and a faucet will pour forth
like drip drops of hors d’oeuvres
blue where blue shouldn’t be
little by little
until your lungs fill
like the broken roof’s spittoon, puff like popcorn
and bloat till they blow,
like the flap from a butterfly,
And then the boom, the
buzzing of one million summer cicadas,
floods you, pillaging everything, you’ve just
been ticking,
little by little,
a ticking carcass.