poem that ends in a snowglobe 

i am holding an envelope on stage
& someone whispers "you should open it."
instructions are never for the benefit 
of the executioner ( or is that executor?)
i do open the envelop & out comes 
a spew of dandelion fuzzies. this stage
will soon be all yellow. inaudibly yellow.
the winner is somewhere laughing at me.
the auditorium becomes an arborium.
trees instead of seats. old old trees,
the kind with musket-handle brothers 
& knots thick as mixing bowls.
the spotlight follows me as i try
to escape. hands are clapping 
just out of reach. i climb one of the trees
until it's a lighthouse. salt water.
televisions bobbing in the surf.
a conch shell presses its mouth
to my back in a kind of rigid kiss.
what if it rains from now
until the end of time? my windshield
is a watercolor. my memory is a school
of dead fish. take a little oil 
& anoint the forehead. the third eye
blinks & waters. it's just a marble
& a surveillance camera. the "veil"
in "surveillance" cloaks me.
i am receiving first communion 
all over again. hands pressed together.
a little girl
in a white dress. i taste 
like a breath mint. someone bites down 
all my bones gone chalk. 
the veil in a paper shredder.
we only keep records twenty-five years
after the patient has seen us.
i am the patient & the doctor
has cold hands. he is a robot 
& he forgot to put his skin
in the microwave. i am afraid of:
corners, crevasses, & my own
believes in the dark. 
a cirus is coming to work
underneath my bed. the music 
keeps me up at night
but i never say a word. i let them
have their fun. eventually,
yes here it comes, i am standing
in a perfect town surrounded 
by glass. just me in my pink shorts.
barefoot. have you ever seen
a figurine like me?
probably not. shake the snow
to swarm me. a single flake
pinned under my foot. 
the blizzard brief 
& releasing. do it again.
do it again.