a robot texts me at 9 am every morning
to make sure i haven’t polluted  myself.
once, i was a masterpiece in an apartment
everyone left. door walloped off its hinges.
to quote the christian delusion of you —
we are made in your image,
to offer                                        (ourselves).
O, Cloud Spitter, Sky Shitter, my bad.
all that’s left in this yard sale: gentle collisions,
mangled dreams. Tomorrow, the drink
and the hangover
in a dead heat.