Tuesday, April 21, 2009


what makes fiction less real that non-
fiction? the stop post goes flapping away

a night red shaped and lipped with rain.
all the valleys a wind can spill through, all

the dales waving their boughs. i've never
lied to get a purse filled or lifted my shirt

for beads. there's nothing showing
on the screen now. a blank thing

and blinking. what's real comes out
from another space--what surrounds

the screen--what fictive there blinks
and comes into word. my minutes are

almost up. my hands are stuck in shapes
they don't recognize. keep these keys

well cut and oiled, they're squat and squeak
when pressed right. like us. like us. like

others, too. but like us best. we want our lives
in you.

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