But for the butterfly in China,
I’d be on Delancey, leaning on the mantle
watching the pendulum of the clock
and not electroshocking myself
on the plush carpet beneath
a bell tower, having successfully
contaminated the national postal service
with a slow burn, a gut reaction,
a compass with no morals attached.
I was almost a real girl on a bus
on my way for ice cream after being
propositioned by a sad turtle
but instead became a ripe tomato-woman
with lists and limbs in other dimensions
skimming through days like they’re
an index to the Big Solution,
which may or may not be true,
depending upon your fantasy.