by Anthony Butts¹

    ——Detroit， Michigan

    Broad-ribbed leaves of the calathea plant

    trickle² water down into the mouth of its pot

    as if it's still fighting off competitors in the wild

    as kittens scamper³ past， the knees of their

    hind⁴ legs bending backwards⁵ with inhuman⁶

    ease， like teenage boys leaping for rebounds⁷

    on playgrounds， their hourglass sleekness⁸

    glistening⁹ like the shards¹⁰ of forty-ounces

    littering the court： sons of southern

    autoworkers still unfamiliar¹¹ with the Michigan

    that has taken them in， girls watching

    from windows as they care for the children

    of older sisters. The act of wanting offers

    only the hope of movement， for every target

    an aim， lives spent in the in-between，

    multitudes of coexisting in this particular filament¹²

    as if no other were possible——American engines

    turning in a summertime traffic jam， white clouds

    from factories as if shift whistles sent them forth¹³：

    the mind propelled by possibility and promise，

    an unbreakable stasis. The person who wanted us

    has come and gone several times like a tulip

    bulb's inhaled¹⁴ and exhaled¹⁵ lives： desire，

    the seed itself， creating. See what others

    see in us， that gem¹⁶ which no one owns，

    our skin a concept， a bloom of imagination

    like one's own yearning¹⁷ unfulfilled——unchecked

    as poison ivy¹⁸， the fumes¹⁹ of its combustion²⁰

    more dangerous than the vine ignored.

    Boys want shots to drop. Girls want

    what's through the window， not anything

    close by or far afield， just the usual.

    Cat-backed Swedish and German automobiles²¹

    scoot down the boulevard， someone

    else's barbecue cooking across the street.

    Desire never lies beyond what's given.

    I have hated the second-hand²² world. Who was

    that person divided between the glances of passersby²³？

    Bodies decompose²⁴， even in memory——

    the hand-in-hand of melted hourglass，

    bloody²⁵ hips²⁶ of gifted tulips detached

    and traveling the earth， until the mind

    puts an end to them like breakers

    washing out to sea. "Fine neighbors，"

    someone will say. "Quiet types，"

    because no one really knew them

    until the press run. Packing kernels²⁷ inundate²⁸

    the universe： far off， coalescence²⁹； close in，

    vibration³⁰ and sparking. Upon

    each smooth surface， each body，

    Picasso portraits， light and dark.

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