The world shrinks for those that own it
and in his mouth something round
and circular, a tennis ball
grown ripe with haggard.
His heart is in his brain
and his brain is in his paws
and his paws are incisors, gnashing
at the world
he lovingly domains over
while relentlessly destroying.
Later he’ll sleep
hard as mahogany, uxorious
sprawl, goddish,
and when he wakes again
the world will be there again,
freshly,
to remind him of his waking.
He’ll take it
in his mouth, no pain.
Heart.
Amy Lawless and Jeff Alessandrelli are writers living in the United States of America.
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