I need different arms and elbows;
these are used, they fall asleep
at night and I wake up
without them, worried
and wondering if my arms
might be oragamied
into a crane,
flying shadow puppets
stuck to the walls
that can’t find the window.
They scoop cupfuls
of clay riverbeds
over each other
that dry into casts
and click against the floor
as my arms make their way home.
I’ve threatened to leave them
under such conditions but I’m certain
they’ll leave me first.

This new apartment—she’s cheap
and *****, used up.
lazy ceiling tiles pillow down
and yellow, watching me half-heartedly.
Then somehow you,
always full with something,
your shoulders

taking up the whole hall,
phonetic laugh and roomfuls of teeth.
Upon seeing you, I wonder
how ancient pieces of broken church
feel against calluses, what it will sound like
to give birth. There is a word for this
in Siena, allupato.
The wolves starve
and feed.