Daisies tied over anthills
squirm for last milk.
Melk. The white in-between
smooth as the plane from
skin to bone. The crust of
Great Granny’s cuticles,
Typewriter ribbon and tennis
biscuits or pecan pie instead.
The things we save for later,
down down the rock walls
of our throats with a gasp.
All the things we are not guilty of
poisoning, all the things that are
not pretty to see.
Papillae 