The Mall is Closing I will always get the wrong sweet. It’s not that—it’s not that, but impulse is a high-fructose corn syrup something something razorblades. How about let’s kill nothing not even our own indecision because it is a warm bird body under its feathers. Bless you in the back aisle I can’t see what you are looking at but what a tender outburst. Cue the thousand thrashing dragon heads and why don’t we screen in the porch to keep them out? Your face and its alphabet of pinks. I have looked up your nose in every possible way: I have seen the curtain folds of your literal brain and still I don’t know how you get to work. Next time I will change your wiper blades with my own hands, surreptitious sock puppets that they are. I will slapbox with you or myself in the bathroom mirror until we are so embarrassed we marry the untouched coffee cake. A skylight is a ceiling drain and my god is outside-this-room a good caver. How did we ace this audition for the mall is closing and here it comes: the fragrant publicity that suffocates entirely its lightboxes. A Proper Highway Your hand here on the canyon's thigh the cliff of a lip the proper highway. The coyote’s arthritis is more like a sunset than the canyon’s trust fund which is endless and guarded and its guardian is gardening howls in its belly. Pain is a gilded cliff. Pain is a gilded cliff. Girls who long for the desert never get lost or get hurt doing splits. Make way for the bridge as its making way for girls. This is the modern way: no way but the thighway. How does the canyon get home by the end of the day. The end of the day has good young knees and can go down hills well as up and is the coyote’s primary caretaker in an assisted living facility called what, are you lost? A gloss over globs: a clause if you’re lost. For the left behind the canyon offers a limited time vacation package. Really it’s a box that arrives when you’re lost and guides you along the dried river blossoms and whispers your mother’s disappointment at your not becoming a proper highway. You dont even know what the ad was for but it made you want a glossover clause, as in if you do not see the coyote's pain reverberating in a motel scene your head in the sink your mother's brazier calling itself a brazier and the highway alone in a girlish plane. The canyon wants you for its primetime hit series called skirt burden o girl you are lost. After the crash your lessons were private and no one could tell better what a desert should cost but you were so worried when the canyon went quiet and the coyote’s pain at the end of the day told you highways are mothers at home when they’re lost.