come morning the mudrock buckled on its pair of ankles
like a truck-driving medicine man & made for crayola's
wagon. she modeled it after a fish she'd once spotted in

her sleep, it had a walking stick, mumbled, then pointed
it at the mountains - & the next day she upped & shaped
a wagon from the parquet floor she kept in a box hidden

beneath the barn. that remaining fragment of the mosaic
that was her awareness of the sky arose in her body as if
it were an earache flaked from egyptian slate & released

to the lakes, she built a chicken coop, shuffled her deck
of flash cards & arranged them across the surface of her
wagon, mathematics mixing w/the science of indecision.