Neighbours know their ceilings. Pealing thunder
makes them strange, though—horror’s borborygmus.
What that says of knowing is a wonder.
Skunks fillet our garbage bags to plunder
futures, flaunt what we’ve been ordering. Most
neighbours know the spiel—unsealing thunder
at their fleeing tails is like surrender.
But we shout at what is bordering us.
What that says of knowing is a wonder.
You and I snort hellfire through a hundred
organs, shudder, lie unverbed. Our igneous
nipples know the ceiling. Peeling thunder
later, spooning into one another’s
laps the sulfur hints of our arrhythmias.
What that says of knowing is a wonder.
We fart hard from upwind, clumsy hunters.
We’ve been practicing our carb arrangements.
Neighbours know, their ceilings’ peeling, thunder
augurs certain scents. Will we out-tender
age? Well, would you rather burp or ignorance?
Our great flatulence will shine from under
door gaps, lemon days, and bourbon’s egress.
Neighbours know our ceiling-peeling thunder.
What that says of knowing is a wonder.