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The cold threatens my hands
     which I cannot retract.
 The mirror threatens the cold
     with my own death,
       as if that would dampen it.


The outdoors threatens the indoors
      and its instructions are intact,
       as if preserved in electricity.
     The lenses of time turn backward
         on its grid work of dancing.


   High afternoon waits to explode
          in the dragon's belly of a pocket
           restaurant, flashing and urging
          in six pairs of eyes for every
             one.  And partakes of the lunchbreak,
                 smoking and fleeing.


Scarves fall from my hands on the way
      to the laundromat, and pantyhose,
       and chandeliers of corsets and
     thongs, wait for me there
   in the ceiling detachment
     above the throne of coins.


Scarcity can wreck, scarcity
     can make an incredible animal.
 The scarcity of time can shrink
       the scarcity of all
          these other things.