Aug 252011

Clear tape
anchors the motorcyclist's window
thrown up frivolously against
the howl of "onward."

Naked and splayed
as an exhibited newt
staked out flat as a collapsed tent on felt,
I read the accompanying sign:

"Here lies one
dull as the other one---"
It lacks the garish wet that one
finds requisite for life.

Frail light
elongates lingeringly enough
to define my diving bell,
the clear weirdness of here.

Here, without an onward.
A here too full to ask: from whence?
A here deaf with wetness,
drenched with now,

a prismed bubble.

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