we want to see the steeples
the ones we heard about from you
in hushed, glittering whispers
that died against the hot stairway air
like newborn paper airplanes
discarded somewhere halfway up
we want to see the hanged man
not for too long, we promise
just long enough to pluck wispy fibers
from the knot, we’ll braid them into
wigs for clothespin dolls or
manes for wooden horses
we want to see that thing, the thing
someone scraped from the road
with a snow shovel and a garden hose
it’s kind of nice how it plays out
the chittering creature peeled apart
between tire and asphalt
and no trace is left there
the walking thing
the thing that snuffed at the earth and prickled with
pulsing, frightful marrow
that thing disappeared under the grinding-wheel
it was replaced by a rent, shredded nothing
— Jay Scully is a writer and musician from Virginia who currently attends the University of Mary Washington.