[fable]
Two rabbits gather in
the strawberry field of the snake. The lake nearby cannot decide if the vibrant
red is blood or juice. Maybe the snake is de-fanged. Maybe the rabbits aren't
hungry. Maybe the strawberries will soon rot. It's all too far away, the lake
says. The binoculars
fog like clocks. It's easy to assume
the rules of nature over vases of wine and I refuse to mention the logger with
the hedge clippers, amputating a branch,
smashing berries with his boots, his
smooth back turned away from the fangs.
[ligament]
A
town without a down ramp. Offerings of decay. A family of nine. They invented
the globe and rolled it into the tide. The father was responsible for the mice.
The mother, the moons. The padlock was a rocking chair preparing to tilt. The
key was in the sleeve of the son lost at sea.
[visitation rights]
In
the lighthouse the mice eat the blueprints of boats. The weather is a postcard
too ashen to hold. The nautical walls know nothing of loss. Everyone is a
suspect. The museum's box of eyes has gone missing. Everyone is a witness.
