The inner spinning like a Rand McNally globe.
(The place her finger lands, blindly: my name.)

·

Yellow stripes of winter air
to strip the eye of its reproofs.

·

Her, imploring: “Touch.”

·

An eyelash threaded through
a sewing needle’s eye.

·

A game she plays some nights:
no lights, no brakes.

·

The way she’ll stir her first drink
with her third finger.

·

A decorative map-
pain.

·

An open window in the thought of money.
(The scary feeling as I scissor under, out.)

·

The smoke inside her laugh’s
red brick chimney.

·

A prick of blood that beads
and hymns itself.

·

A wasp that wakes in February:
raveling, unraveling.

·

The first and only question posed by
unfed transparency.