I can feel pine-shaken snowavalanche down my aortaas his fist reshapes my cheekbone – rearrangingwhat is ugly, what is wrong,
just like Picasso. His bone-whiteteeth bounce pearls
off the toaster. I don’t know him
or any of this: whose house
we are in, whose maple-bark knees,
whose sinew-red toothon the stove. I bury each onein the garden: a row of canines, a patchof incisors, thinking they mightturn into beanstalks. If you chopped meat the middle you could count
the years since I was felledon one hand. I imagine combustinginto a rocket, sending pieces of house,a bath of shattered glass,his patched-leather reclinerinto a blazing waltz,as I cover the forestwith my hands. Through the window,an evergreen stands staringinto me, pineyteeth shaping a grimace,
as a yellow-eyed fox chantsrun, run, run. Later on, a breeze comes rollingthrough the broken window. My bedroomfills with sharp, green needles, spinninginward.