Caroline Szpak
Blurry Bloodshots
The root vegetable sits for a minute,
thinner than shelf-life.
What does that make me?
Painted grey and dressed
like a rock, stumbling
upon a bush to sleep in.
The park patrol dims
like a grid. This has nothing
to do with a misunderstanding.
Hoof circuit. Horse of blues.
Horse of the rising sun. Potatoes
are eighty percent water.
I can’t hit on you
with champagne, or Tetris.
You can’t fix my outfit
behind the stop sign.
Headlamps peer
into every dry, dark
storage. The posts are lonely
on their way up
past our necklines.
Relatedly, I don’t belong
in a turnpike. I’m turning
all these eggs over again.
I mean, I’m eating
all these whites again —
they’re anonymous as seat belts.
The heat makes them dizzy,
they lose their IDs.
Some other things you knew
about me already.
That would be an unintentional way
to spend the rest of your evening.
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