Good morning, eyes.
And in your dream, old ladies sold you roots,
and your day doesn’t please you.
Who makes the dove in the yard
sing then, or is it just
trying to say something much different?
Time isn’t a friend,
because it hides its delicate mechanics, but
there are enough creases in its fur,
where you can hide.
I make coffee. I set the table.
I divide my change
into past and present, so I know
in what currency I’ll pay today.
I’ll talk to the reflections on the signs.
They’ll talk to the reflection of my face.
And everything will be real, as far as
its strength goes.
I can hear in the distance the tuning up
of the jagged wheels. From the crevasse,
a card will spring out. This is the card
I live for.
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