A broken pile of bones, we come to meet in streets, near the hedges,
accidentally, as we are accident-prone. We show and tell the places that don’t
work any more. I have a small wind-up ferris wheel, a present from my father.
It won’t wind. I ask the one with yellow hair if she can make it go again.
Our circle studies the little red toy, its stillness. We wonder. One man,
once a boy, offers a story—his first birthday at the children’s home—finally, there
were plenty of present bodies, approximating family. The one with curls
scrunches his face into a pickle. He shows us that try as he might, he can’t cry.