Only one year I planted pumpkins— carriage or shell for keeping very well— dragged them to the front yard, left them to grow old
My father’s lungs are full of fungus, great balls of fungus fibers. Blood clots in the sinuses. The doctors go in with knives up,
an elegy Digging ice from a turkey’s neck to excavate it from the cavity is what I thought surgery must be like, frozen fingers,