The new kid sticks his arm out, screaming at us,  as we yell
back at him.  He thought he had it all worked out—
gushing toward the sky.  The Eagle II was pearl-bright
and moving westward.  Yellow glue takes longer than paint
to empty from the cup.  The iron-ons are prone to wrinkling.
Breaking into droplets, sweat takes about the same time as glue.
The skin on my scalp was streaming from the charge we got.
The trees were floating.  We all hemorrhage through a hole.
There isn't a good panel on the plane.  Soft, weak, digesting: I guess
we're discussing viscosity.  And it probably doesn't come in a can.
Thinners reduce the number of seconds of violence,  but we needed time
to move the leaf in front of the 7-Eleven, juggling our dismal thoughts.
I never talked to that kid again, or remembered his name.
He was cut for telling.  He was isolated in himself and overflowed.
Construction-paper notes have been tied to the fence with purple ribbon:
Karl, we thought your glasses were nice and intellectual-looking.
Tags in place.  No one was arrested.  The smell of blood is in my nose.
Suppose a small hole drilled in the bottom of a cup could receive
my bones at last, used and cleaned?  I look around at my friends.
I didn't have the slightest reason to be here.  No one did.


Copyright 2011,  Deborah Woodard

Deborah Woodard is the author of Plato's Bad Horse (Bear Star Press).  She has recent work in Web Del Sol.   She teaches at the Richard Hugo House in Seattle.

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