An accidental barrow
with hearthside nuts awaiting
a deeper connection
to the world above.

There are many ways to chew
and swallow, none of which are forever.

There are no accidents,
said the radish to the rutabaga
though true harvest feels arbitrary,
like where hearts or leaves fall.

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.

Sending wicked things
through air and over lush valleys.
Shapes form on the horizon
and it’s us: our bodies
twisting in a dance
like fish seizing on land.
Trouble fades, as we do
and light fills every space left.

A breath placed on a tray
the curse is light, fleeting;
why are there so many chairs?
It’s confusing.

There aren’t any eyes left
so it’s a struggle to stay upright.

A firm foothold in happiness
means a loss of balance
and possibly disillusionment.
It’s heartbreaking.