The stars in a box, I tell him, buzzing like lightning bugs. He pulls out a machine that looks like a coffee grinder, and he points to the crank. As I turn it there are loud skirls from the drawer like whale songs. I pick up a black scissors from his tray, but don't know what to do with it. He takes it back, cuts through the skin of his wrist as if it were a leather pouch.
Gold coins pour on the ground.
He laughs again. Enough of this craft. Take me home. Wild Onions I could write a poem that no one could tell was for you, or for anyone. You don't know what he's like.