When you’re following an angel
Does it mean you have to throw your body off a building?
– They Might Be Giants, “She’s an Angel”
Vanilla butterfly rests on a buff grass bloom,
and in the kitchen, a gyroscope spins
down on a heart-pine table.
On just her feet she waits
on the pinhead between
nothing to lose and everything,
considering the rabbit who can balance
teacups thanks to instinct,
vibrissae that prop the ball
on the sea lion’s snout.
The sense is draining from the sink,
clues caught in the sweep around an eye
that wants to keep things just like this,
a dry calm of not knowing.