Summer equals cicadascream plus other superimpositions

hung in the air like an idea of bunting but never the worsted

wool. I’m no mathematician but who is? Nobody in this poor

excuse for a nondescript prism hurtling birthdaytowardbirthday

toward your tenth coffee is free. A popout cake is a large prop

designed to resemble a cake in which a person emerges to the

surprise of outsiders. Innovation and jobs and growth have seen

a little seat inside. When the alarm went off this morning I wasn’t

yet the genealogy of an image but who is? Who? Everybody inside 

a popout cake has two wolves inside them. Both are domesticated.

One is a chihuahua/pomeranian cross. The other is red. Anyway,

there is no gimmick like home. I once knew a pomeranian who,

despite the limits of their form, taught me ‘bagel’ is short for

‘baby angel’. I digress. But also: when in Rome? When in

Rome stuff a pie full of doves and frogs and have them burst forth

for your guests. This is all to say grief is a detour. (When in

Rome!) I desire for this loss to manifest as something (anything)

handsome in writing but all I’ve got is this fixation on popout

cakes and the loudest cicadas are the ones who stayed

in the ground the longest. But don’t take my word for it. Ear

to the ground until the lawn’s urge has cut through to the other

side. Blade of grass? Meadow of knives! Find a verandah and wait 

on it. See what I’m saying? When in the yard ask yourself: what fangs 

out of the bracken with a head full of garden? The answer and 

everything on this page is