because I saw you
walking with the sad parade
as though you wore a compass in your stomach,
and the fins of your feet couldn’t stop at the curb.

Look over there at the lady
in the three-fold lawn chair
who’s come to watch,
who’s sleeping.
She was a tire-climber,
a full flesh in the lame
light of the surgery room.

Once she found the killer in a pine tree,
and he saw her, too, and disappeared.
She then climbed to the top
of the yellow shed and waited.