the morning a fork fell to the ground
and you looked at it for a long time. or how
you knit spiderwebs with your fingers
to wrap around your spirit crown.
it is fair to say je suis, tu es, nous sommes, vous êtes refugees in blackboard stories, easily erased, taking bullets with the passion of a tortoise, or the leisure of a lover—quietly, slowly, in all fairness, as it is fair to say.
but note in increments, take heed;
you drop moon perfume on your neck
before carrying on chameleon duties.
and now i wonder in these lofty interludes just
who you had your last conversation with.