The fact that the house and its inhabitants are tiny and cut

Kristen Orser
one says goodbye to the other at one o'clock in Buffalo
inside of a balloon.  the final act is bursting, 
but it's scarcely noisy.  the other tired sleeping.  It matters
so little:  the one looked into the other's 

birdcage where the bird became a woman and then died.
the other says this must mean proximity and injected 
hemoglobin into a horned beast.  the one wondered

about something else entirely, but stayed affixed
to the empty breast of a kangaroo.  this is not 
indulgence, but a hypothesis

staring into the window with lean little arms,
waving its thumbs in the air.  the other 
is filthy green from gutting fish.  Like corn

in the wind the one says “shish” and the other
says “shut it.”