Homunculi

11.58

dull criss cross spiderweb
sky. No poetry, just lines.

Three pennies in my pocket
jingle, echo and quiet in step –

a thing is right only
in its rightful place.

12.08

my carbon body is steaming;
a reductionist epitaph –

until death, he’d been a man.

1.08

flickers on, a lucid dream of wire.
Blue storm, sight unseen, electric

mitosis. Half-awake, it’s waiting –
I’m waiting, for the prompt.

1.48

pan-fried scallops, spicy red
sauce – thinking of heat.

Mussels in delicious oils, good
for dipping bread and also for

facilitating compliments
attached with smiles stretched.

B.