Whether you are promiscuous or merely forgetful,
I’ve carved your name on half the trees
of an indifferent forest to help you find home:

a garret in one of the streets of Montevideo 
that leads to the water, which is every street 
if you know how to crawl. Whether you come

umbilical or toothing through an egg, come binary
or multi, exploit your former form, the stink
everywhere of burnt meat you would not have

eaten even if cooked perfectly. Bodies walk
themselves out of hospitals, thanking the nurses
but bypassing the tip jar. Unless you’re Edward

Gorey, don’t tell me too early that there’s arsenic 
in the pudding; I will pay extra for the suspense
we all deserve. Whether or not credenzas collapse 

in an earthquake, their prim private longings
will escape into the larger culture. Whether or not
you make a meaning, grab my throat and shake.