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I

The ocean is outside my window

and I am sitting at my writing

table, words pour out of my green

pen onto the paper.

Now water laps at my feet,

a hole in the floorboard, global

warming the cause on this chilly

November’s day.

A man on a strange bicycle

rolls by.

A child sits on the sand and

drinks his Pepsi through a straw.

The clouds whip through the sky

as if in a timelapse.

The lights in the house

grow dim and then grow bright.

My toast gets cold–still toast?

The frost melts off of the

window.

The man proposes. The woman

accepts and they kiss.

The dog escapes off the leash.

The coconut falls off the tree.

The squirrel jumps onto the telephone

wire.

II

All that we learned vanished

into tiny inky blots. I am light

I think and I’m blown end over

Beginning by the light in the canyon

at dusk, on the pier at twilight,

then lighter and lighter.

There are mud coronas in my coffee, and cussing.

I’m asleep and I’m watching

myself sleep, mumbling careful words

about Bartok in the desert and

ingredients in a Basque omelette

and the droning guitar of desert

blues.

I forget if I told you this already.

I forget the capitals of all 50 states.

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