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	Five o’clock again in the rented living
room. Nothing wrong. Heliotrope continuing
to fade into upholstery. Buttons pressing back 
	against the back of the couch make the surface

	cave, just decorative, faint garden stamped
on a cotton throw. And that the world. Yes no. Yes though
if there’s such a thing as time at all I never saw it
	move and if that’s so then what am I

	afraid of? I hung a muslin curtain to prove
breeze, a nimble petal, tall fluctuating seraphim 
who keeps watch over me. Q: what are you
	doing down there in the

	there in the meantime? X: All day 
I am an orchard at midday when the stunned air
pauses, bronze and stupid, terse with flies. Don’t lie. I’m  
	in the living room. Seconds dropping 

	from the faucet to the metal bed 
of the sink keep duration numberless, no 
face pulls anaesthetized expressions for this
	is your one precious and disposable

	now this is, now late, nobody
waits for thee on the greeny moor where I was
lain all stuck with yew, or the Q: did we outgrow
	our dream of a point

	repaired to when alone
some to the landfill, some to the promontory
each with a small smooth stone tapping soft on his chest
	through his shirt or clicking

	against his teeth when on his tongue. Once
you thought you would learn what to do 
with yourself by yourself. Once the stakes float high
	as a view from the beautiful

	private plane at a number of feet 
all persons disappear and he alone looks down on
freeways embroidering the vacant earth. It was still
	early in my life. X: Go along. Touch
	
	the corner of your eye, a black moon shoots 
into the margin of the scene. Do you know how to
do the thing of whispering a fact repeatedly until 
	it stops being true. Returned to this apartment after being 

	gone a while to find everything replaced 
with replicas, identically arranged but not
belonging to you. The cedar desk with the same false front as
	before, etched rosettes and arabesques 

	and fitted with the same brass garland 
handle still unable to pull out a drawer because it is
no drawer. That was the soul. Communicating 
	chambers of my third-story

	home string a sentence furnished with secondhand
pieces. White hooded lamps are nurse to me 
all night when they can snap space open
	like a parachute, make the walls up
			
		when I lived out a summer with a blind man 
		by the sea, he kept a steady squint, though
		times when he was tired something 
		would forget to hold and his lids 

		rise, it was still early then 
		in my brief life, evenings, every morning
		at the folding table painting his toast black 
		with Marmite, once he was me 

		we took turns for the bed, a year
		his room was everything white except 
the book spines makes you feel the good 
		kind of dead, when is it, someone’s two-

		year-old downstairs leans on the bell
		again, lived winters half an hour
		away from them or six or seven minutes 
		on the red line, times he had me

		scissor bracken stalks to stanch the mud floor
		of the animal shed, from space when night appears 
		a hammock swinging gently out across our
		Earth, each fall slushed over

		birdcalls could be recognized for tiny screws 
		creaking shut your mind 
		when I used my fingernail to scrape 
		white tallies on my naked ankle then
	
	think of the long trip home. Though
you’re already home. All the loyal 
idiot details know what to do to
	stay believable but you

	you who sit and let the light rust
reddening all around you waiting for 
anyone to come and tell you to
	get up get up nobody is.
MARGARET ROSS
A TIMESHARE
Interference 
threading rumor 
through the lines breeds
shortcuts, swiftest mercenary, fostering 
speeds so fierce they, quickening, spark

a wiry heart 
in the aluminum 
jockey’s chest. Fetched up
in perfumed silk to fool the camels,
it wears its plastic helmet and head strictly

at practice 
as laws prohibiting
statues trim both for the actual 
race to a silhouette only comical if you discount
the man on the sidelines, clutching the breakneck pulse

in a black remote.
Those glossy faces 
may be tinted to recall boys
forced to ride in the past but likewise
match the sand’s beige ongoing debate

with wind
that flubs the horizon
and slams every door in a house
to shut me in. That’s just the kind 
of child I was, spying on everyone

else through 
the slatted blinds. Are they
dangerous? True, nothing sinks in 
them. Still, salt lakes shimmer glitzy
a girl in sequins (swerving now by the slot

machines) who,
turning under lights,
flares a skintight portal, fitful
sleep you wake from with your eyes 
salted shut. Wasn’t crying, no, just sifting

desert pinched
from the other side
of the earth, I guess, the day 
a transcript part of which is “for your
safety” censored. It’s so dark here in the living

room whose only
light leaks from nicked
TV wires reigning in the camels
galloping through snow. Forecast: steady
antimatter flurries won’t disturb you in their drift 

uninterrupted
through your chest, your face
an easy sieve, transmitting furtively as 
bees’ hives on which God’s name from time 
to time carved overnight is cursive shadowing

the verso
loops a twitching bee 
describes to mime what distance
lies between her and the full-blown
rose. It may sound like luck’s hum rotating

the fruit
but the reel was
measured to pause, breath 
held, third cherry set just south of
the other two. Extrapolate from black

ellipses 
at the corner
of a screen to see how even 
motion at the speed of life might be 
perfectly static. You know you shouldn’t be

afraid: the close-up
of George screaming when
Harry sleds into the lake is
another row of cells locked
tight as a calendar and as mute

in each 
a mouth held open
demonstrates its one allotted 
phase in the cycle waxing through
to entirely black. If I recall the anchor

quoting, “were 
invented to replace 
the use condemned” then
how does the speech go? From the plane
deporting them, boy jockeys must have seen  

Qatar in roseate,
pixellated shards, steel 
constellations sending up a chancy
glitter speckling vision, their eyes coarse 
riddles even when they turned away as from

a childhood 
room I watched 
an astronaut dismantling
the hive whose every frame
dusted him with obsidian stars.

FAZE
Yes I also came here asking how but it’s 	
	the greenscreen. Rain up to his chest, asking
	also of the others, what floor. His shoulders 
don’t dissolve because the navy serge, the meager spectrum
	the future doesn’t touch is the resolution

good for us, these operations to avoid
	routine. Defenses down. Consciousness 
	corroding in a chill emitted what. No, we
are better of it: vivid, I forget how
	your complexion blue-rinsed by the stream

we faced the content, pastoral, still
	buffering stops. It’s not real distance
	so much as it’s proximity I can’t abide
“it seems I never actually reach
	the things I touch” turn into 

manhole lids held firm from underneath 
	by what is that down there in the
	fugitive expressions. Pull the sheets up. Glue trap 
a thumb-length brown silk pocket mouse
	is fixed against at its peak 

altitude of nerve, courage nothing but the sugary
	crust made up in an appearance of 
	we were playing Lear. This time without the
look at me, on our knees, squinting
	so we saw a man inside was

furious hum of the overhead fan was
	trying to unscrew the ceiling. Through
	skies of silent intermittent signals
the anchor hesitates like she doesn’t 
	in real life wiring buried underground keeps

the year in pictures, another day’s spent whether
	you embed dropped seconds in
	or grate the broadcast drives the feeling
home, the sentiment preferred over
	he interlaced his hands behind 

his neck, shirt off, elbows daggering out
	stripped mattress bulging through the quilt-top 
	seams. There’s memory enough to save
fresh copy of the contract I already owned
	up to that, no need to go through

fields of lavender and clover in the summer 
	9 to 5 I had one August pinning Morphos
	one per envelope and, yes, it was
first you steamed them, then you’d tweeze 	
	a homelier sky then
	
fastening them counter-clockwise
	in my stockbook, I ignored
	I saved the first day covers  
pull the comforter’s plush grille over your head
	cages the undone geese

REFRESH RATE
Yes, I also came here asking how but it’s 
	the greenscreen. Rain up to his chest, asking
	also of the others, what floor. His shoulders 
don’t dissolve because the navy serge, the meager spectrum
	the future doesn’t touch is the resolution

good for us, these operations to avoid
	routine: I get so bored there I can barely
	read and another thing, what 
a chorus buffering disposable atmosphere
	O.K., dropped again, aside from the wings 
	
they’re all professionally pruned to resemble 
	birds trim the corporate park. In the flashing
	sidebar advertising loans, storms flow 
actual doctors warn don’t touch the thin skin 
	pillowing your eyes if you want to stay looking 

young means counter-vertical, in other words
	two attachments and a screenshot of the Planetary
	no, I missed that one, I skip the first few tracks
cotton packed deep down glass necks
	keeps the content fresh. Take two

soaked cigarettes gone tender in the sink 
	we scissored eyeholes in the sheets pretending we were
	goes to show, what are you thinking
now? Just wondering what you were, we were doing 
	Lear this time without any words it took
	
five minutes, I was in yellow, the boy king ran
	he wouldn’t stop across drenched grass
	ash-colored sweater smearing into
nothing, only wondering what you were
	fog sunk to the ground which changed 

the rest. I was however many years
	wanting actual boundaries	
	made topiary arguments to make time 
seem O.K. not the blank-faced overhead, just
	listening to carbonation snap from a can

another blunt white sky the jagged
	rooks come sharpening out of. Yes, it really happened
	every one, they’ll soon enough go into 
affect, it’s a shame
	where the softscape blossoms company

slogans in the tulips, lilaced air, my mind
	is an adjoining yard I watch a man a stranger
	cross each day. Not you specifically, I need
someone to hold your place, when I think
	I don’t know anything I 

open the impending explanation. When I think I don’t
	think. I raise my voice above
	honesty, a chrome-walled elevator stopped me 
where a man’s shirt-front seemed burned into the chrome
	were the numbers glowing in conjunction

REFRESH RATE
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