A unicorn comes trotting up the lane. The woman keeps whistling. Her husband comes trotting up the lane. Her ex-husband comes trotting up the lane. Her two dead husbands come trotting up the lane. She whistles. A sycamore tree, its bark mottled and smeared and beautiful, comes trotting up the lane.
Suppose you do change your life. / & the body is more than / a portion of night—sealed / with bruises. Suppose you woke // & found your shadow replaced / by a black wolf.
Corpse-dust spills all over / the floor, and twenty brooms // and bins cannot erase / the gray that settles. // The twenty crocodiles / in the bathroom eating // from my hands do nothing / but nothing.