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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