When it’s down, I tell you, the blood is crooked in your veins.
You extract a strip of brown gauze from your mouth
and examine it. It contains
a sequence of disfigured letters—they first were born,
then taken away from you.
My feelings are like a blanched squid; only the black eyes peeping out
and a velvety fungus at attention on my soft palate.
Clothes in piles are underhanded
as they scheme against me. Same with the clock; it hands
me
phony money
made of rubber, quizzes me
on the numbers of slants on imposing light.
A jewelry box with tasseled key
waits in the remote corner. Out of it
comes
a miniature conductor
holding a bone wand.
His crew unloads at the foot of the mirror
as he taps at his tooth, the only hard part of him,
and gets us to attention.
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