Children at the zoo learn that flamingoes
get their hue from their diet; the healthiest
are the pinkest. A blue man with an
oxygen tank walks by my house; sometimes
I cross the street to watch. Ice cream
curls from thin scoops. I used to think
that the whites of people’s eyes could tell
you something about their souls: the little
red rivers that ran through my mother’s
meant that her soul was anxious. There were
never any birds in the birdbath. People can
hear the difference between hot and cold;
viscosity has a sound. Fruit flies can be
tricked with a plastic cup of vinegar and a
drop of dish detergent. There are five people
in my family but we only set four places
at the dinner table. Scabs always scar
when you pick at them; I pick anyway. In the
accordion folds of a city bus I lost me
identity. People eventually get turned
to dirt. What kind of earth are we
treading? The Truth resists simplification. In
all our maps we make rendering errors.
