Listen to Your Tongue at the End

Artichoked down another day's
layers. You heard what you 
heard. Words echo once and
then become sound. One house
plant stares at the fireplace
as a lamb before McDonald's.
One feather escaped its pillow
and went from down to up
the side of the couch.
A thin honey sheen 
spreads over evening
and her clouds.
Too many yellow roses.
A chapter of disquiet
followed again 
by a final layer
of active taste.