You open the door wearing a wolf-fur coat, a top 

with three trembled wolves, mismatched 

 

shoes, a haircut, thumbs. Beneath 

a tender of clouds all our friends share

 

needles. Call it cost disease. We delight in 

new economics, curated

 

hepatitis for all. Tomorrow

smears hospital. Dappled and algorithmic 

 

in the evening’s pennies, anatomy

belongs to the weather 

 

inside banks. We dress like ambitious 

vowels, like Directors 

 

at the Museum of Knives. Today’s folio

resembles a mouthful of salamanders. 

 

What minor American family. What Narcan 

flinches us in the morning’s patina and how 

 

many eyelashes swallowed? Don’t 

think about our tongues.