Imagine you're falling from the sky

You open your eyes and that space between your flippers

Not there

There

turns off the router and listens to the me

welling up within my mice.


I was shaped in no clear virvidividual shape

I was manipulated by widgets

Spoken to with tongs.


And after all of that negation and despair

and repeating the word "drown" into the stream

where thousands and thousands of hospital beds

like so many Cheese Whizzes

cry "defile is me"

a low dishonest, exalted life

that longs to see the waters filling with fire


The small of my back

backs up into the there's nothing else to do.



The first poet probably spoke to invisible specks

as if they were germ tips

geometric nines that act as they linger in our eyes

but act only as emblematic animals.