What you hadn’t considered: the dancer
done with ravaging her body. This poem, too,
done with trying to hermit-crab back and forth.
Somewhere in the video—at approximately 37 seconds—you replay
a dancer’s movement, from exploding star to curled potato bug.
And while reading you underline several words:
I guess it’s too late to live on the farm. No sweet talk here since, indeed, the world
is generally multivariate, requiring tattooed confessions on your chest.
Mistakenly they re-deliver the Sunday paper on Monday.
The dancer tells herself, Wait, yesterday had already happened.
For a moment, you consider yourself and the dancer as edge effects,
changing habitats—forest turning into a field, marsh becoming a pond, etc.