sketch: desc. of location (as man), 061420112044


Off to the left on the ash tiles below the legs
Of the yellow folding table, they do not wish to be ID’d
Beneath the lights ( clearly

Disappear, scurry, scurry, disappear

Fans stir the otherwise contemplative air, the night I try
Grabbing the vein — bug wisely — I swear with my eyes, they hide (scurry

Now ( There is a woman there

Off to the left on the rotten tiles by the legless
Yellow folding table, moving moist jeans
From machine to machine

     He rubbed his knuckles across the stubble on his chin.

     “All my things are here, aren’t they?”


How best to appeal Councilor? Tell me. If I must be guided, guide me.
There is a rambling now an exploitation of words, and as I rise a rush
Of blood-like cue cards, haughty explanations quick against the bone


Against the skin, the cold grey tiles beside the ash, the piled upon reason
This quickening grey bone, tell me, Councilor
Guide me

Press yr lips to my neck
Do not only take away this pain
In silence press yr lips
Do not take away its pain.

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