The song masquerades
as a phone call. The circle

is temporary, a leopard, a center,
a stomping ground. A flock

tightens in circles,
but each sheep is firm, stone

jaw working away its lower
face. A thumbnail, a shoehorn,

a sick fool, a clown; peering under
the sash, we watch it hang

a spotted dress. You return
from the school on high,

your wreath developing a
faint ring; I demand your

face’s hand-off, your shortened
name, so solid at room

temperature that my kid gloves
crumble it, vanish & absorb it.