things I have used as bookmarks

a spill of women’s laughter a
decommissioned submarine the
book of common prayer a
cube of tubercular midnight the
noise of this cheap flat at
midnight crying the
ghost evicted but
lingering the
floor as opposed to the ceiling as
opposed to the
candy apple of a summer convertible
borrowed for seventy-five miles an hour up
the valley toward the canyon narrowing &
disintegrating into curves & inclines & the
fine moist paper-like film that
lay across the landscape at dawn after
a six pack and sex placed
between pages as a reminder of the
infinite mass of words ahead


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