the dreams of ghosts are being cloned
a washing machine moves on through country
broken-down horns squawk in the belly
of the cars set on blocks in the drive
i hear the sound of saws
being played at cutting
no fear grows from stumps
the rings a sign for hole, a singing sky dips into
you can only translate doubt
into however many languages exist
at a given moment
pull the lever and the wrong order
drops into the vending machine’s
no-longer-empty holding space
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