My body is a small town
and I live on the outskirts
where cattle graze and die. 
Each morning a fresh egg
dribbles into a buttered skillet
but the shell makes no 
sound when it cracks.

At night I lie under the stars
in a corn maze and I am safe. 
Somewhere a willow sighs
and shrugs its limbs— 
I did not think it would hurt so much, 
she said later on the phone,
or that there would be so much blood.

When I cannot sleep
I walk to the train 
above the river. Listen
to it churn itself ash-gray. Hush,
I know—it will be
over soon—but who
can hear me? Maybe—

as it hurls toward the sun, 
the earth clenches its heavy jaw 
to keep from howling.