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Several Vistas

Of death. And even that crust of representation they belong to,

falling asleep in a bus station, uncertain that this was all

there is, all one waking reverie, the only hint of actual existence,

say an office window, is no longer your friend, but is itself

become abstract, squinting your eyes to find your way,

look further into the shower of years. Yes, you are small

but then who isn’t, brushing themselves off at the turnstile.

You have come a long way, that comforting refrain metallic

in your ear, click. click. and then the next thought finds you

happy and bursting with flowers, what a day it was munching

your greens on the verandah. The view from here is becoming

obtuse and you return to your garret, smoke filled, waving

a red book. So many tableaus to choose from, you exclaim,

wrenching a beret over flashing eyes. And this scene too

is growing wan, tired of watery soup and wavering arias.

Try to stay put in your plot the voice-over says, mapping

a course through several vistas, the day is punk and night

portends an expansive eclogue where you don your mittens,

put away your notebook, and unbind that lovely aspect of boy.