2000 Lenora.
She walks the streets of somewhere
there where her mother began to walk.
In some ways it started in a pool,
a rusty pool in that flow
of varnished wood.
She is not tired yet.
1300 Virginia.
Two for one. She breathes.
She knows that pleasure, brutal
against the air, cutting an instant.
She turns around to break the body;
her arms up and down
facing each other. Wings. Leaves.
Four leaves, two halves and a pit
in the ground.
Most dense.
800 Stewart.
No parking anytime.
He has two sides.
He thinks her name is made of wax,
a relic of her parents' mold.
He remembers his parents in a mirror,
mirror with a bow on top.
A knot.
500 5th Avenue.
No turns. No turns. No turns.
She is not supposed to step
on that atmosphere of asthma;
shooting, lying there, dead,
and then starting again.
The varnish of this picture cracks.
300 4th Avenue. One way.
The rain is coming.
She buys a black jacket and hat;
a flat hat tired of gyring the circle,
to the double circle, to the hidden.
This chronic dance of ciphers
seeking numbers.
Do not block. Intersection.
The good times are now and here.
She had much to talk about.
The second one was faster than the first
or so and so.
Elevator.
The little death is a cage of water
surrounding the little earth.
Years of yellow eyes and masks
and painted bodies that form a face.
Light off. Push.
A column of blue with pulsation.
They three threw their voice to the fire
to become mute.
The sun is underground.
A garden rises.
Close door.