Prints in the agar
Or: A depressive in the garden
Pluck him, Goya! The culture in the petri
is awful. In the germ,
where boys sprout to don white shirts,
become ironists, and
palaver in poor company, everyone presses
their hands against
the agar and leaves prints in it unread.
The bloody body
in your mouth—walls of the rustic house—
sinks with the tomatoes
your son grew after your death, timely that.