Massachusetts Avenue: Where is your wheel? Your bike-body? Sturdy-car-self?
Woman: My bags are heavy. My hat is warm. Do you speak French?
Dream: That child in your arms, his eager weight, can you protect him?
Self: Are those tracers in the night sky or falling stars? Where did he go?
Open Bottle of Beer On the Grave: Will I shatter on the granite marker, be drunk by the fresh-dug mouth of earth?
Young Men: Effervesce like a joke with a scorpion tail
Time: What can I do to you?
Yew: My crown may become irregular, my sex may change, still the thrush will love me.
Air: Which of my weaves pleases you most?
Hawk: Pockets, please, for me to hang inside. May I rip your seam and glide?
Paper: What shape – what curved dotted stand-up mark – shall be impressed upon my field?
Pencil: I am a scritch, a scratch, residue. How could I be anything, let alone, enough?