The Chronicles of Hugo Flake
In my bed I encounter cannibals
but this skin has been reserved for another.
It is a duty to laugh through the deranged
season God has set working. Friends are here,
I know; to visit whom, I do not.
All has changed to foreigners’ food. Once more
I consider the pedigree of time,
and see no puzzle to its address.
The trees in my photo have long been yours.
Wastrel, you have found me.