For Example

Make an airplane with your hands,

sprint from the top of a driveway,

soar through a crisp turquoise sky

over a Grinch green front yard,

red roofed Monopoly houses

lost in the ecliptic,

you as small as a knuckle,

barb of a dog’s tooth,

latch of a thin silver locket

with someone inside. A photo of you inside,

seated on a wooden chair,

after you were told to adjust

a little, smile for the camera.

We know it isn’t true

like overcoats in a closet

that walk out at night

when you sneak into a cupboard–a capsule

you steer with a teacup saucer

and sleep inside with tupperware

tucked into tupperware,

a revolver, loose bullets,

and one escape hatch

that opens from the outside.