Three Poems

[specimen]

He said a gesture can’t be an echo, so I had to point again. The imitation veldt looked like west Texas, but water is always specific. It’s that time of day when you say, “It’s that time of day.” She told me to go where I could no longer hear her and then wait for further instructions. I kept half an eye on the wolverine, which was a feat, since it was my glass eye.

 

[specimen]

The paper was made out of trees, the pencil was made out of trees, and those smudged erasures are trees. He said, “There’s no problem where there is no awareness,” and I said I wasn’t aware of that, but now that I am, I have no problem with it. I’m beginning to suspect the bottle of invisible ink I’ve been using for twelve years is actually empty.

 

[specimen]

A problem is a way of creating a future; my problem is I’m dying. Time grows around fractures. “Naturally some night she’s gonna say, ‘Come here and shoot this off my head.’” (A death that can be read either entropically or dialectically). Now he’s trying to explain how he’s not a revisionist. We thought yesterday had stopped, but it just kept going until we fell asleep and it is still here.

 

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