Autumn's too early again. My neighbor from Ukraine watches me: "The grain seeds you in Soviet Russia." Weeds choke his crocuses. They imply left over tabs of KGB seined. I see that blue jay is looking at me like he knows something. Now I feel so small I can fit in any cleave a katydid can't. I wake up before the sun and never think of the sun in its absence. What shops and what locks? What cops at the door with guns drawn, nacarat red in the ichor of dawn? Your name is on the warrant. No. It's someone about the want ad. Your mom's sewing machine. Its broken bobbin catches skeins like tuberculosis. Three tweens in leggings dance precociously in your kitchen. The pastrami sandwiches mustard themselves when you leave the toaster without adult supervision. Or maybe, just maybe, the spiders you ate are real, not images. Eight legs; two eyes; an egg sac; the thorax bends. Web gone slack.