dummy

where rafts
(magic carpets)
screens                            & rugs

begin:
It’s a mission door. All you do is
dig the cellar under it,

and space will open
the last of
the Russian dolls–

its tongue rather unholy,
flat-turned like a lid
over a grave. This one that

Amy rubs her body against.
Amy has been a cat
for three years. She’s not sure if she likes it,

yet. The door is clamped down around
a hall, the bottom of
a dock the clocks strike at odd intervals

the way you
call somebody. How can it be that
they’ve preserved all the jars here,

but not mine?