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.