by Dom Fonce Viktor Forgacs May we slice? May we sit at the table? May we stare at each other? May we sip bowls of me? A black eye separates here and gone. Somewhere, a girl spins in a green field like a top. Dress fanned out. Hair wild. See her from a down-looking view. Fall into her. Closer. Closer. Into her pupil. This is my name. Patricia. Put it in your mouth. Swallow. On the shelf goes a doll. In the cellar goes a doll. In the attic goes a doll. You will forget each. Yo