It could even say, would it
Could it, that having left it
Was all an accident in the choice of words.
Too fast and creating too much. There
Is a portrait like a leftover with foil and
Foil sweat underneath when it looks.
Ephemeral writing pad traced by lines
But not marked up, still just fool price.
The air is cold from the window
& on that other balcony a woman
In a hat and sunglasses. Chest fingers
From below the ribs tense in futile anticipation.
Proximity to the sighs made machinery sounds from it
& airplanes tick on the wall. Look I'm a swan
Shows its papers. Don't scratch yourself in security.
Gets under short shrift with a pointed object
Looks for an opening. Looks into the room
Where what is to be seen might be seen
Through modes of dress in the metaphor
A white jacket passes with tray of fantasy objects
But doesn't count on anything too many people
To watch everybody do. What differences accrue
To the pockets themselves when used
Only for certain ill-fitted if adequately accommodated
Itchless micro-crutches. Bottles of poison, hand grenades,
Such items should be stored in your checked luggage
& placed in a zip lock bag in case they explode.
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