Lapsing into flaps to close a cardboard box, she slips a note in afterward
the way she forgets she can dance
without strings. The tension
for the right arm varies from that of the knee. Thighs weigh more 

than you might imagine. Pulled out, she emerges
naked and cut free
of nerves before the flaps fold
over each other, before everything collapses, 

before she slips away without written instructions
on how to manipulate the soil
to grow freshly carved limbs.

Sycamore (Day 1,353)

In the throes
of my intention
disorder, I forget
your name, how to reach
the top of you, how to
let go of those limbs 

you wave over me.
In these fits, the stories
I tell are not mine
except when they are.
That I come from ash,
that my mother left me 

in the rain
without a skeleton
shelter, that I still
eat dirt (raw not baked)—
these are some of the ones
I intend to qualify 

when I no longer suffer
from disease over the way
jacks wish to cut you down.