How quickly the faces avert themselves, the red light gleaming in the corner
where it was where I was not looking.

Now I know why frogs came and collected themselves in my chambers,
making travel music in their throats.

Each rock contains a powder, and stars are dark, just underneath their skins.
The lump is discovery awaiting.

Today there was a film of the grass to see, and when it was made. The Continental
passed it with its strange winged doors.

Twice. I kept gluing myself to feathers, and every other foolish and delicate thing
that smelled like forever.

My face swells a passport. I take sugar without my tea, I tell the attendant.
Eyes don’t age, she says.

Roman numerals, you ask of me, can you read them? No I say, I cannot read
them, before I say, Yes, yes I can.