by Ivy Jones Il Vagabiondo We can’t bite anymore. Latch on and stay. I would love to taste fresh ink from tattoos, stray hairs long as the Eiffel Tower’s calves. That time we went to Paris I ate a dog treat, I didn’t say bonjour, and I ate another dog treat. It rained and hailed and such, and I got your likeness put behind my elbow. Don’t doubt me; I can list things, or make “Pavlov” a verb, or smell the flaking iron balcony, or grow my fingers long and wiggly to scare the ch