You work with doll pieces and cigar
boxes. Mirrors reflect limbs
suspended on toothpicks.

///

You bend to touch the tablecloth,
and pull tightly across an
imperfection. 

///

The earth knows your name
and you live on its skin as
a benevolent parasite.

///

Your home is ringed by live oaks
and run across with softly
breathing floorboards.

///

When you die, you leave a hole in
the fabric of the universe.

///

The hole rests in your former study,
regardless of the Earth’s
superposition. It eats shadows.

Dan O'Connell studied music and creative writing at Tulane University. He currently lives in New Orleans.