Lathe of the Creator

How many car accidents ought you survive?
You approach the counter, all
that remains in
the bank behind blood vessels stopped

up with stolen toilet paper, the soft expanse
like skin to get past. The brain’s white film—
you can wipe it off but not off your hands
or faucet. Get at me soon; say “Hello!” for once

in your eyes. The coffee stammers on the stovetop.
We had not thought the path would still be flooded
when the rain stopped while we were talking.
“See it seep

out the crack in the mug?” A finedrawn scalding
sticks my arm, the veined scape to mouth
five petals out for sun, drinking
where it can reach. The track of orbit’s fancy:

an odd look
strung between the buildings
with two screw-rings in the sill, some length of nylon
bracing bricks through the underframe.

We are making believe America, always making where
is there to start. But you approach, ask:
“What is it you can tell it from?
How badly would you like it to matter? I have

a sentimental attachment to my mausoleum. Can they help?
You’ll think of them
dying often.
So how chosen do you feel? Soooo

idiosyncratic, we breathe in
in the manner proper to one. My envelope and then,
the gasbag of an aerostat itself. How unthinkable you are.
You will not buy out of the system we

are all busy thinking about how to-
gether we all are. I’ll wait
for odds, sink costs in gulleys. The bridges
get fixed, fall out of memory on

one side of which we drop distinctive twigs
to watch to the other, coughing up fog.
It’s the largest deal in history.
Now people live for decades.