A stone on a string swings around your head
for a few seconds. Then the knot slips
and the stone goes flying.
A lover on a string orbits you in widening circles,
glimpses in doorways and oxidic bars,
a hint of the bloody smell that attracts tigers.
Sink the evidence in a muddy lake bottom.
Slip into the stairwell with a co-worker.
As in a game of Russian roulette
it is the taste of the Other that attracts.
A woman on the street with a purple cape
and a missing hand.
A poison leaf, a custard filling,
someone buried face down in Salem.
The wildness of places
with bees that burrow and punish.