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What will she sing, now that his mouth has fallen slack? She casts needles beneath purer grace of glass on wound steel. You hear waking the dog, who kicks. Imagine of claws on sills. Imagine Tennessee and sixguns but too what’s under in shadow. I’m running my hands. Parson, over this pale boy in gaudy suit, that one and only cadence, the boom and one a bird beneath tire treads, or into noon like dumpster donuts,
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Where I am. Forgot the specific angle and wattage of recurring red light (spinning police siren / neon sputter / siren again). Lost the fiction, the canvassed location (this or that motel). A name with chocolate in your mouth, or tequila, stutters I have sat here with this same chipped cup for years, photograph I’ll never see; spattered head-on-wall-on- My own. To get rid of. It’s Wichita, nine days straight. It’s of the blown pupil which seemed only to see sorrow. And music, bed. Kansas. Arizona. The lover who is not a lover. The lover this breaking and delicate skull, below the violent end the metal hand which reached for you? Which took resolution.) Kansas wilts and scorches. I will not.
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What you wanted—a place for the disparate,
severed but replete with a something (a wanting?), object: physique d’ephemer, a shutter blown back. Scattered furniture. and water. You too could fracture into malleability, There was Philadelphia, two days of a steady a tumble into the street, all shame and stockings that we can’t forget? And your sherry eyes god a dog who wants to be stroked. To see one’s self after mirror after mirror. You only wanted that wouldn’t fit. These very things small doorframe. Then birds fly out of the box, You want to be happy? There are more into his handsome face—vanished and vanishing. wanted you here, brushing your teeth in his sink, and thus sadder. (A fear of endings of silica, dust, penny arcade.) His arm then his back by turning to you on the train and broken (bewilderment at the disappeared without spark or mirror, headed north, a collection of your own. He is present here too, as something that stopped her going back. He is resonance itself accumulations of useless, haunted things (chosen)
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February 12th and winter an empty threat. Summer greened us in, convertible tops, lime. At ideological retread seminars, day campers peed their short sets and we changed them into anonymous poly blends. There is nothing slower than turning from you, from them. Car wheels on gravel mixed with snow, the outer borders of the state and its rehabilitations. May you never leave what you are about to love. The city smells again of sulfur from the outposts, and I’ve been waiting for that song to enter the tubes of the jerryrigged radio, for that tex-mex AM revolution of this-is-how-it-goes. Your uniform never more handsome than in a heap on the dashboard I imagine carries you past the checkpoint. Inside somewhere, the children wait for the rain to stop. |