The fences are covered in must
Shriveled throughout their adherence to fur and fairies
Scribbled with centuries-old stories of mankind
Mankind shrunk under binoculars
Mankind in a loop with a name different from its other portraits
Nonetheless
All of them conjured in the same definition of shape
It’s past tense reproduced
Somewhere in a bulb
Or not
Who knows which the round is?
Us, out of their massive mania
Or them, outside our microscopic one?
The torturers and healers, two opposite-looking breeds
All sat together at the same last supper
All winners
All people
Outside me
Us
Somewhere incoherent with nothing but an oxygen mask on
Unaltered by the cries and interspersions of time
Watchers of a vocabulary we’ve come to learn the words of
Speakers of consonants we have not yet to scrape reality of
B-level pantomimes
Builders of sciences inside a dolly house
Vicars of recipes and clay gourmets
I
I’m forging fences just to see what I need to escape
My favorite playground
My deadliest playground
A medicine woman deprived of corpse
Who belittles her blankness around swollen red dots
Just for the thrills of seeing the scab reformed
And the moon restored in the smooth amplitude of a face
A self-killer, a self-curer
My repetition for no part
I
The puppet always with a fake thermometer on.