saw a woman once pushing
an empty stroller. the lack
was the color of a trampled
sandcastle, the woman
floating driftwood slipping
off unforgiving pavement.  i
could not know where she
came from or must go (a
spring waltzing down the
stairs fifty paces, nothing in
between) though i can recall
her leather pumps sailing
through puddles
and the absence robbing the
wheel’s squeak. i tally the
crows with each muted turn,
enough     to     keep
her warm.



often see myself in dreams,
passively in the midst of
things, sitting in the hallway
of my old house braiding
matches into my hair so that
i might stay afloat in the hall
of mirrors. (If i moved beads fell
with each blink, on me and
not me) recycled figures’ toes
stretched      over            with
someplace to be. follow the
sound of a rolling dice
before its dots spill all over
the rug again, hair unfolds
on itself, i find myself
seeking     something      mine.
perhaps   i   have   stolen   my
own                eyes.



caught the tune of a backed-
up, rusted handgun. the man
over there has got that
rubber face on, looking like
the ladder stopped halfway.
now she looks as if she’d
rather catch him with three
hands than with none at all,
hair parted by the corner of a
coffee        table,       plucking
eyelashes to have something
to say. the glass pipes that
curl around a copper
headlight tell me that it’s
great to be here, perhaps
greater than to stay. i’m
washed out with no dinner or
a show, but the call left on
hold and the plastic bag doing a
sombre            pirouette.



reeled in the line and out came
the sun, filling the whole pier,
sounding like a memory as it
spun around in my palms. i
peered into it like peering
into     a    bottomless    bowl,
holding back a yawn. the light
like the stem of a dandelion,
the seeds disturbed by the
ocean’s applause. i carried it
and it carried the scent of a
flashing    green    exit    sign.   it
reminded me that there was a
time when i was put down and
never picked back up. i told
everyone i had tossed it back
in, had to, but what did it do
to deserve that.



Artwork by Rene Magritte “Portrait of Stephy Langui” 1961

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