A Keen Sense

114 A KEEN SENSE MOLLY BENDALL Not a bothered body or a sleepcoil. He’s dislodged the pretend of it. This station’s doublecrossed with a new cake, a metal ball. Only that one really knows Katmandu. The sun treats the soft strands on its back. So we daze him or jewel him with weight when new eyelashes appear for the stroking. Sham a bit for scraps. Maybe he’s in on racketeering charges. The knot in my jaw is named for the one who bolted out. And a moon-sliver stays in a section of sky. Curtains for him. Trophies ghost the savanna, and a clutch of eggs arrives in a forest closet. Calves, take me walking, we’ll recite with our baskets out. Have I outstayed the shine beyond yours, rushed in for more sympathetic looks? If torments were dresses barkers would twirl. And what’s prohibitive—touching a dewclaw for luck? This one’s a good soldier, and the condor’s wingspan fills the maze. ...