Sometimes the world comes to me. Sometimes it goes

away. Today, it's a pitbull on a fire escape; a flayed goat,

eyes still in their sockets, hung from a silver hook

in the butcher's window; the buzzing of a blue bottle

as it enters the flytrap, its azure. Scribble "abundance"

and the day will offer you one list. Scribble "elegy"

and it will offer you another. In the stationers, I buy

magnets and string, thinking of how ravel means

the same thing as unravel, how cleave means both to

sever and to cling. Next door, a man with a finger

missing is selling the cut flowers he wraps in cellophane.

We fall apart quickly as we become. Under the ground,

two trains are passing. The passengers, pressed up

against the glass, face outwards and observe, in the carriage

opposite, their mirror selves passing the other way.

This article originally ran in the December 24, 2008, issue of the magazine.