Rubato
to tepid milk sitting out. I’d 
forgotten. He is in it, as he is in 
every vaporous toccata whirling
lost inside the radio. Questionnez, 
rubato. I cannot tell which eye is my 
enemy. I eye with love, with loathing, 
any tool to scoop it out. But which simply 
sees? Which connects dizzyingly out of a grab 
bag of images, its open-mouth socket a noiseless vacuum?
underwater. 
12. A house clicks 
and shudders in southeast wind.
5. Long curtain shadows twitch
in powdered light. 
With each forced closure, I lose
a whole dimension. 
 
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