I write about spilled coins and fallen tree limbs
Forgiving myself for the common
My attention is often misdirected
The schoolteacher would say broken
I remain happily deviant in all settings
There’s a string on the floor
One lightbulb is missing
A man at the podium talks
“Data,” he says, so composed
He could be an undertaker
I’m thinking about my windpipe
And my hands, the opera
Of every mysterious body
That has ever lived
