From the Russian chemist’s Ziploc bag,
I accept a chocolate.  A white ballerina

dances.  Her thighs are muscular.
She has no head.  The navy background

is an impression of night.  On the other side,
red strings on a gold harp make me eat.

I take another one.  I’m told to take more,
the whole bag, but grab just a few.

I move my car to avoid a ticket,
and not thinking of my fate, eat and eat.