Outside, the crickets’ evening chorus abates; the day’s
terrible appetites recede to the hum of almost distant traffic.
What muscled hate reaches out across the years and finds
blind targets against which to fling its poisoned arsenal?
One surface in every kitchen is nicked with marks: as though
the scene of regular practice for some circus impalement act.
The goal: to trace the body’s outline as it holds still; to throw
without shredding the air, to mark by merely a hair’s breadth.
A roll of the dice, a flick of the cards on the green velvet table.
Hands pass across stacked tiles, dividing the fauna and the seasons.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.