—after Theo Jansen
The wolves bind my belly-cast, my body
a fox-draw, primitive milkground.
The green-eyed ocean had its run
of my skeleton, trumpeted
up any salient sorrow,
until the dog-girl lunged out spring.
Then I was three strangers. I was
wire in the skin, I was put
out of number. I moved a little
like water. I came back to my
seat on the stoop: everything covered
the devil and rocked sorrow out.