I touch the top of my head,
and my fingers come away with blood.
Send condolence cards,
send a reason, send the moon out
for a second encore.
Such mysteries occur all the time,
and without anesthesia,
but I call like it’s an emergency
because that’s what
people bereft of wonder do.
And who is this? the woman
who picks up asks.
Oh, to be a cowpuncher
sleeping it off in the town jail.