You lie upon your couch, and painted on your retinas are the ruins
of 50,000 cities, and fragments of translucent maps:
This is also what we call the falling snow.

And with each morning begin all things, but mostly
a corner where the sunlight collects bare floorboards
and a rug of Rajasthan crimson, a loose pyramid of satsumas,
where bourgeois scenes of contentment and decay become
an accord between antagonistic demons,
eyes half closed to call electrons
one moment between journeys,
the sum of mysterious negotiations,
a fragile treaty with debris.

How slowly the wood has tied those knots fire must so rapidly
untie, but the wedding will go on without a bride or groom,
not even slow sex-on-legs our supermodel Siamese can star,
the polished atoms of the dust perform their show regardless,
and we are happy with bit parts:
even the mountains are walk-on/walk-off,
with each haunting dawn, we’ll wake, forgetful of this vision,
and, all the rage, play hotheads and revolutionaries once more,
charging through our hearts,
believing we can take the stage.

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