My father drew a spiral
that swirled out, tucked the edge
into the underbelly
of the last loop, called it a sleeping
dog. In the exam hall the tap tap
of pencils dotting the cells with choral
seas of cytoplasm.
On the television screen the dead actor’s
shadow-antics the aureole
he couldn’t carry.
Perched on the parapet
of the high-rise, the eagle swoops
down to grab a rotting fish tail from the bin
twenty-two floors below.
Adept in definitions
of gold and trained to make sense
of lines, I unfold the lies in the
dresser to braid them into bearings