CIA scramble

in front of three marlene dumas squelettes, a kindergartener
tramples her fluffy stuffed reindeer. the top of her head
only reaches the shortest corpse's pelvis, where it clutches
a muskrat, ominous. mid-hopscotch, she looks me
in the eye and says, "if i kept walking, i would crash
straight into the ocean." you'll crash either way, i want
to tell her, then realize i am crippled and old.

easy spirits

i want to be okay with imminent death
the way the old ladies in the gallery are,
touching their tiny pearls,
taking their time

a quincunx of fluffy-headed prunellas
squinting, bewildered: "A NEW WORLD ORDER?"