Sometimes a shrimp loses its shell
And is wrapped in a book of quilts
Such monstrosities wait like grandmothers
In the open-air vascular system

Where every color of blood floats gently in mid-air
Like grandmother’s dreams wrapped in her quilts
Page after page of exciting quilts
Like plot summaries

Of a heaven where sex continues
Into and through the infinite year
And the eyes of a grand old mother
Sitting on a dusty couch

In a realm of dust
With handfuls of blood climbing up through her
Limbs to adjust the pages
Eric realizes he has just become

His grandmother
And simultaneously
Been peeled
Looking at a mirror