Little claws, perfect. Curved as a moon.

A deep well draws oil from soil. Here are

tax dollars, despite my moral opposition.

Here are my eyelids, here are my burning


eyes, here are my slow syrup hands.

The world is so small it seems impossible

that anyone could go missing. Where would

a body hide? Who would dig its grave?


Even the animals leave tracks when they move.

Let’s forget our body’s weight. Pretend that we

have followed the circus to its lofted wheel

and watch from above. There, the church steeple.


There, the ice cream pit. Every morning the river

pulls itself from one end of the city to the other

like a cripple pushing on his elbows. Now I am

the cripple, selling watches. Now I am a city watching.