LEAVES OF SPAM

wet meat plants

that grow in the dark

with the moon shining

on our leaves of spam

well what with 

the sun & the people

being the way they are & all

we count our lucky stars

when the clouds blown gossamer thin

~

& no one knows

what happens
every 

half-arsed 

cranberry night

when all our eyes are shut like clams

but it never stops 

the mornings embrasure gaping