By Brandon Kreitler 

The knife thrower at the carnival practices with a dummy strapped to a spinning wheel,

a painted spiral because who wants flatness?  – a sack of laundry under the sheets,

         a mannequin metastable in an immaculate windowscape.

Hello I.

What then can be said in a world where cotton stands in for snow? 

– flagbearer.

I  asks the knife thrower for directions where the road splits in two.

What’s down this way?

A slaughterhouse.

And in the other direction?

A slaughterhouse.

Water in the posture of river.  

Erasure.

I presses the side [do not read edge] of his newly sharpened

knife, running it over the slab of beef sitting on the counter-top. 

            Methodical in the absence

                                         of method.

– the part of knife that means change,

                                    that takes everything

                        for itself emptied.