There's a picture of me
falling under the world.
And a half-cut roll of dough,
and a knife with a pickle.
Seams tracking light
from a scar, the electricity's
music flaring, a diagonally
plummeting silver cube
on tied-up wheels,
a door near the onions,
a winter's frost.

Scorched fingers
dancing over the keypad
in the back, among
the wrapped cheese
and hanging brooms.

Sun on the silver decks
of oiled metal
the twisting hook and series
of round blades.