You want in this city
somewhere to return

not knowing where
to hinge the door

a string of wooden
animals round my neck

the absence of a job
you need a little more

space to store markers
and the heads of dolls

thrown in the dear
city where I eat

to grow my hair.

*

There are the things
people leave in their

books and this dream
I have where I go

through the tunnels
the wrong way you

know the work was
slow until it wasn’t

pressed to the edge
of that stage there’s

everything you don’t
need to know and

the crowd growing.