Sunday Dinner

Punch a cloud through a window, approximately.
Get within sinking distance of the blue feeding tub.
Out in the open a yearning for enclosure.
I'm not alone: my apartment is vented.
I'm rooted in haywire. I'm opal to the dab. The thick mucous
from the back of a frog makes horses run faster. Mutated by anger,
dampened by grief. Steadily, and without warning, a miracle
will fuck you. A swath of guilt, looming,
glassy, stalled for position, like it works.
Pick up something light and tangible for dinner
like helium chicken with nitrous gravy.
In your dreams you dine with kings, delicate
hands help caress the food down your pipe
until all the sitting food is massaged
into your limbs. Formal lumps make bulky urges
while the hosts dab thick liquor and syrup water
into your craving outline. You are so right!
This is fun! All the cities have so much to offer.