I don’t really like the ferries that make the water a scary vortex,
or the blurry white sun that blinds me, or the adorable small families 
of distressed ducklings that swim in a panic when a speedboat cuts 

is feeding his canaries on the terrace
when the Gypsies start to sing.
Dinner candles have long guttered,

Hansel and Gretel were picking strawberries 
and listening to a bronze cuckoo.  
As the forest mist thickened, 

What if givenness isn’t enough—
and the wind’s slithering along my arm
is really a subtle summery alarm

I lived in a rooming house then 
and tried to be good but was a real 
disappointment. A man without cunning 

The transfer is done in a dark room
with a red light to keep them calm.  
Still, it’s stressful, hanging upside down, 

On the way to Mass, by chance,
I spotted you on the boulevard at a café
with your wife and her mother. 

Why do they lie down
when I shoot them?
Such open,

I came from a place with a hole in it,
my body once its body, behind a beard of hair.   
And after I emerged, all dripping wet,

The record skips in the parlor
when the gurney wheels past.
Mother’s on her way to maternity.