box of jars

christopher bock
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.