Her reports are all Web 2.0,
she is on the run.
A hall of mirrors such that
the source text is indeterminable.

*

She is keening today at a funeral for a stoat,
so she irons her red petticoat for a hood,
brushes her hair till it swoons, sets
her dandelion clock by the daytime moon,
all that jazz. Eats a hearty lunch, with wine,
pockets her black-handled knife, sets off,
her tale collected and catalogued.

*

On a blog about Britney:
So what if she lip-synchs?
The spectacle’s the thing.

*

Holes for eyes cut in newspapers,
a full-length brown trenchcoat,
black, black Cadillac,
the shape of your heart
.

*

I want to egg her on, set her
going like a flat black clock
with a MIDI alarm. But perhaps
she knows something radial and whole.

*

Bones stacked, her body falls
into an unswerving column—
ears, shoulders, hips, ankles.

Buttocks relaxed, legs back,
belly strong, head raised.
She imagines someone pulls

a string from the back
of her head, allowing her chin
to fall level and her throat

to soften. She does not tuck
her tailbone. That’s what I
imagine.

*

Just as my phone lights up with her
position, my battery’s dead.
I’m left with a memory
of what she might have said.

*

Singing: How does an ant
work out how far it is back

to the nest? Glue stilts to its legs
before it strides out to the wilds;

take them off and it will walk
only part of the way back.

Does someone go out and collect
the ants after the experiment is over?

*

Something like:
knowledge is diasporic,
do not pass Go.