Good job the huntsman
scissors the animal open
so Red and Granny

can be born again.
Reborn whole and hardy.
No one thanks the

hero; but that’s all
right. Red’s also reborn
in a second way,

as a child who’s
not quite such a
fool. The wolf’s big

eyes fill with grief.
His big teeth chomp
on air. He wishes

to view all this
world’s injustices. He widens
eyes a bit more.

All the better to

see them with.

Groups of eight, nine,
rising or dropping, dark
wedges in mid-winter sky.
Abed, she watches them

pass her window. They
keep coming, so many
that she doesn’t know
if each flock is

new or if it
just continuously circles her
house. If she closes
her eyes, fever will

ride her every which
way, wherever it chooses.
So she gazes at
those mini-flights. That one’s

mother. Then come father,
brother, brother, sister. That’s
a year. There’s another.
There’s fear. That’s God’s

Ear.

Slap -- carries all down
the hallway, through the
wall, curving in a

white line above old
oaks. Hand on cheek.
Flesh on flesh. Meat

on meat. A crack
in the air. An
open crack in air.

So easy to be
drawn into what’s beyond,
to be lost. And

thus fail to register
the second slap. Then
the next. Flesh on

    flesh. Repeat. Repeat.

Some great effort’s been
accomplished. Dozens of long

tables askew in a
gigantic room, crumpled food

wrappers on them; leaning
stack of paper on

the floor; Styrofoam cups
all over. The humans

remain, slumped in chairs,
drained, giddy, gazing out

at rain through high
windows, and knowing what

they’ve done is nothing
short of miraculous. Night,

once again, encroaches. So
they clean, straighten; spread

pallets, blankets on the
tables. As usual, they’ve

filed, locked away that
day’s reports. They’ll sleep

with all those numbers
gleaming brilliantly in their

               heads.

Each teaching day, he
tries to find his
classroom in those new

buildings. He’s not alone:
crossing paths, he nods
to colleagues looking as

muddled as he. Somehow,
students do keep getting
smarter; he can tell

by hearing them in
the halls. Not a
bad way, though, to

make a living, since
paychecks keep rolling in.
Plus, he discovers wonders.

In a practice room,
some kid playing a
Bach cello suite. Two

flower gardens flanking the
courtyard. A whiteboard filled
with incomprehensible calculus language.

And, in what he
judges to be that
entire complex’s center, an

empty room. Through its
skylight: white sun; low,
steady shushing of snow-bearing

                    wind.

Sign on its door:
Think Twice. So, think,

think again, then enter.
Pretty good book shop

slogan. Inside, all seems
ordinary enough. Sunlight glances

off dark wood; dust
hovers happily. Books long

sought for -- right there
on the shelves. Yet,

every customer’s shadowed. This
one reaches for a

text. Best not to
touch that, sir. This

one’s transfixed before a
row of volumes. Move

along now. Here’s one
who’s somehow managed to


pluck a collection from
its resting place. She

carries it to an
unmanned register, taps the

little counter bell. An
invisible hand from behind

wrenches the book away.
We’ll take it from

       here.