I’m here to obliterate
a bag attached to my ankle,
to dapple paper with defunct stone forts
full of bread-sized animals.
I can pick up a glove
dropped by a saltwhite bibledove
then somehow use it to regrass
a gas station’s small parking lot.
Someone ok should know I wear
a warmed cup over my lumpy body
to melt slightly. And
if the mountain hatches fire, I
won’t mount the moment, I’ll be
mother of hover hand.