All of your giant beige bras

floated up into the atmosphere.

Blue eggs fell down the chimney;

the porch,

losing its screened-in mind,

caved in.

I mistake one living cell for another.

Hand on the mallet

of my life—

you come

detonating midair

with your own grief—

it’s not even mine.

I watch mice eat through everything,

their droppings

like beads of hashish.

The world begins as

a wolf tied to a flower.

Can you see how it happens

like that?

Something too violent

is attached to something

too living?