These are the pennies my mother wedged under thresholds
I hold them out to you;
Wedge them under the door jamb
That opens to your breakfast tomorrow
Or to your friend’s phone

This is the egg that the artist passes over their chest
It is heavier than before he maneuvered it.
Let’s hide it where birds will find it
And they will disperse its evils so thin
That even they have no ill bird-luck

This is the salt and oil that the verse writer siphons with
She knows when there are shadows in the home
Place them on the sills and guide out wayward portents
That live inside your dreams or your laptop
And there will be no carcass scent here

And there will be no starling in the kitchen
And there will be no death crowns in the pillow
And there will be no blood in the yolk
And there will be no hen’s crow at midday
And there will be no water ignored in dreams