They see faces on fronts of bumper cars. But
the eyes in your shoulder,
the arrow across my chest—where do
these sights lead? Stubborn wonder.
The trouble: a head.
Pre-construction, we can’t imagine
putting together
whatever contents in this box, our minds place
the prize’s nails in such strange places.
Still, long as they can be. We’ll take our night
strawed. Yes, I kept my promise. I made sure
the lamp grew eyes, saw all.
The trouble with anything: strange noises
offstage. A crash, and your muffled directions,
stage right. I keep to the lighting, learning
the angles. Toy with the curtain strings.
(And we put things backout into the air,
and we put things back out into the air,)
Listen, I’ll bring you soup
while you’re away.
The trouble starts today.
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