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
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?
knowledge is diasporic,
do not pass Go.