This little wing impinged,
flat noodles stretched along a foot,
thin strings over knees.
My neighbor groans with her hair brush,
heart pumping half a quarter of its time.
Rocks convince us to build,
and clocks convince us otherwise
to run with hairs and tubes and plates
jalloped and gangled and gamboled
down the home stretch.
In front of her dresser, she swears
that the grain who dies bears a stalk.
The spindled dangling bones
in a slipper whistle of a sack
hurtle over the ground.
One thousand pounds velocited
on a single thumb of a hoof
at speeds of young boys in fast cars
There’s ointments for long walks,
and hot lathered washes in citrus.
An act of trust
unmatched in history
She has once again brushed out her hair,
bound it in a bun, clipped secure,
and halted resolute into the kitchen.