my thumbs disengage from my body
and their lonely stubs stink like eggs,
so i suck them back on to leave the house
in one piece. they tell me this book is giving birth
to another. so what? what if each building
were a different color? you would never run
out of places where no one knows you
in this city. the big prints of your thumbs would fade and the work
of your life would blow. she would be as close as the trauma of witness.
we would walk through each poem. we would walk till we swam,
thumbs brushing the swift sand. i might jump on her spine till she cracked.