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.