Ouroboros Speech

No

where 

road trip

with you, Mind.

You’ve been one to blame

for the crinkled maple leaves

lining the inside

of my mid-

Sunday

skull.

Still,

sun tastes

eight o’clock

with the window shades

pulled to; “My Smile is A Rifle”

slips

cold 

down my 

turntable:

slithering garter

snake twining me to a scale-skin mix.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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