Self-Portrait as Open Flesh of an Undetermined Panic

 

Most of the panic remains virginal in the backyard, mostly quince-coloured, growing

like a flower sitting on an acre of phrases, mostly gerund, echoing

the voiced Gustav Klimt canvas that speculates on a mottled shadow.

The figure of it is the sharp side of human,

the freckled face of suspicion

entering the green steel fences of our house, near the grass

that beds the pain, the pity, the first person

with a complex set of subjunctive mood. At about ten in the morning,

before lunch is served, short of parenthetical immensities

about the recent case of a dog, the doomed offering beneath the orange sun,

the children surround the area

where there is a smell drawing a familiar incident.

It’s a funny fruit torn from the sight’s memorial Eden

recalling a life in the hay, once mistakenly

begging for bones, sometimes barking at the neighbour’s

election campaign ads-plastered tree,

shaking out what’s coming in less, drily unnameable.

However, in the interest of ungrammat