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The sky is not purple, but it

used to be

a moment

only localized

by angles between these branches,

minus their direction:

that is, everything would be flat

if we were to attempt such a

vivisection, and then it is

dissecting. The field of vision

we are working with here is

not large. Most of what you see is getting here,

forgetting to hear here, and when

you were wearing your glasses.

Mother is worrying about you

doing this exact thing right now: not taking

this photograph, but remembering

how to keep track by realizing

you know how tobacco tastes now

it is old and the sky is not


All footsteps are the same speed except if you are wearing high heels.

For three days

I’ve been waiting for the sinking to

ask me to come to the bar

Monday night

so I can say No. While I wait,

two men sit side by side. One becomes

old when I sit down across from him.

The young one has been taking

a series of photographs of me

taking photographs of if

my divorcee was here which he is

sometimes and will be forever: staring and

typing at me. Tension is tricking

us into thinking it is vulnerability.

Footsteps are three and a half floors away

even when they are not

and so is the piano.

Contrary to common intuition, everything is bigger in a big room.

Humming keeps things from being

all the way exposed. I hum back

at the big room that hums at me

and I drop my jaw. I do a dance

on the big stage and everyone

watches, scouts and

skunks and the trees,

if they are moving today.

If I blink, there will be a blink

that makes the big room a

dark room, and I don’t have time

for sinking into a dark room right now,

so I let leaving take a picture

of the lawful humming that doesn’t let anything begin

or end all the way.

My lower back, when I learn to use it, won’t be so becoming. 19 LAPS

is the name of this photograph. It is

the name of everything in this hallway in this

photograph when it scratches the wall. It’s the name of stealing

bulbous whispers.

The girl omitted from the photograph

was already a photograph. I either haven’t even finished one lap or

am one away from nineteen when I see

her stare at me a second time.
It is a photograph of

writing I backwards and showing you

that it spells sinking.

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