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I want an out
     that extends from the sill of this
window to Infinity like music               
         to the think-tank, the head

quarters for reasons            
                 like I’m human and I want
                       to rewind and be reborn
wearing a blindfold and earphones
that no one can take off.

I’m building you a runway.
                I can see you are lying—flying
                                past precocious as the accident
        of interstellar birth: porn-stars
knocked up and off course—              
                             and can’t take off.

Til cold feet crumble                  
         the cliff-edge of the knowable
said the philosophers,                  
                     all that we have
are our selves.

And were groundhogs
                  preparing to pare down
our shadow.                  

                  Cerebrum, Cerebellum,
                               Diencephalon, stem.

When a shrewd breeze, a jet stream,
        shook March off the calendar
the typist neither flinched                            
nor looked up from her desk
as the office swirled around it fast

As clock-hands in retrospect:
Pages ago, streams of consciousness
                         were promised
              to culminate in green
                       back roads
   symmetrical as love.

One prophet gets his thaw on                      
in a warm patch of four-leaf     

                  minutia: such perverse,
uncensored footage    

            We made fade at all costs.
       those washed out photos’

Wax-clad wings spiral       
arms and other       
parts float down, memorable,              
emeralds in the rough.              

Rumpelstiltskin spins signals              
out of broken reams   
of song and falls                       
asleep at the table with the disc on              

Repeat. I’m building you     
a runway—scratch—a landing strip     
to tend—                    

The tracking device in your neck          
               the new Needle in-a-haystack.
So last season.                          
Luck is dead. Results, in.

An alien thing landed
     on our shore

—a whirlwind                         
of enviable colors—over—                   

Making us mute,               
            making us more

And while you were developing                 
the technology to fly      
as fast as time                            
I was unquartering the clovers.