Breadcrumb #438
MICHELLE WHITTAKER
Down-and-Out sleepwalk
hand-in-hand like two lone star ticks
found buried above the sternum.
Watch them trance.
Watch them yawn
wilderness into a nighttide.
Often, Down-and-Out transmit
their anesthetic touch to the other, although
they decided not to conceive children.
But how might they continue
traveling turpentine bloodlines
in this bog-iron island?
Watch them headtrip.
Watch them overthink as a single them,
strobing through the pinelands
while gorging into the sand gully
of pine tar and vanishing foxes.
Watch them no longer concerned
they might split as they release
care about the rocky beaches
former self. The glacial physique.
When Down-and-Out exchanged vows
sub-secretly just like the late-stage
of Lyme disease, who also understood
what it means
on trying to stay together
in sickness and in helpless,
even when 12,000 years tried
putting in a bright repeat
of parental advice about sustainable living,
perhaps from the supervening
or superstitions, they woke their wishes
to un-hear the veracious warnings.