poem for Norma Cole

(after reading Do the Monkey)

to go a little backward
while aiming for very
backward

clawmarks slide-ing down
a shiny happy spot
on the turnstile
can’t be filched

how many phrases
outshine their ex-
ecution
(“slicing a lemon”)
mimes tell the monkeys
do

they ask if we’re full
of dread without
their mouths
we say no
unsure what it looks like

“free will” news
doesn’t reach us
through demise

failure a sign of
a hatred of
windows
at address on a
quality park, two
adjacent zeroes
amid inexplicable
numbers, such as
all of them