Off cut gems arrange themselves just-so on Chinatown kitch trinkets for the kitchen window.
They want to be polished, pull back their shoulders.
Like nail polish on a pig.
So silent is the night. When there is no more duty. What’s out there is much further. So far you couldn’t walk.
Transplanted skin, could belong to anyone.
Like a snake’s discard and become things of desert legend, sewn and used for magic bags that hold the dust, impossible to possess.
Anywhere. When the mask sits by the door. When the sheets are too light, the stains begin to show.
In the buzz of appliances, so shallow.
