by Alix Anne Shaw



Round and round. A mess of hair and mud. Pushed

to the limits of my better self, I circle

the sky in skylight, pursue a steady purpose

you’ll refuse. Sparrows crash at windows,

then pass out. Newspapers tossed on the coffee table

blur off on our hands. Don’t flinch. Just

tell me what it says. Which things we must forget.

What kindles in this tiny cup. A match

held to the fibers. It all depends on wind.