When I was a very small spool I sparked a trigger and became a doll house. I couldn’t see the apple and when it rotted I couldn’t see it even more. I was racked for the smell that wasn’t even my idea. Brother said, “Stupid!” I throw a pomegranate at his pomegranate head. I can’t count odds. My wallet spits its mother camel for chiclets. I don’t mean to show you my baby – it’s in my pocket. You plead and machete the globe but will not dig origins. Mantle is crispy as sesame candy. Core we can’t consider, except in half. HALF AND HALF is my jumprope and I must jump in twos. When my pocket is empty it contains more of itself. The neighbor’s kettle screams saffron, which means woman. What train is for this station? A desert on the other side of the world has been manufactured with plastic oranges. Auntie hit her teeth on the glass table and now I pour syrup into milk as earthquake detector. “Proof is proof,” said Brother. “That’s geometry.” What you smear to absolve will never save a runner. I will not show you my sister. She’s on the other side of the world, in the alley. Can you hear the animals scrambling her, singing? Their paws work all night.
