Cross a bridge
to
the pants dance
Strike
that, reverse it
So
much wait time
even
less time, still waiting
still
ringing (and ringing)
at
the tone
at
the tone
it's
at the tone
Cut
along dotty spotty memory
red
face flushed, contorted
that
yam sweater spotlit
hiding
in plain sight
amid
the manic flutter
Follow
the powdery trail (it always knows!)
The
British are coming!
and
coming! and coming!
Crouch
down in the bushes
The
sticker bushes!
Tiny
needle-sharp thorns
making
exclamation marks
on
the skin of your shins
Poink!
Poke! Prick!
Count
to twenty-nine
where
your needle is holding
just
above the record's
surface
dotted with wooly lint
A
tiny distant relative
coughing
in the night
out
the night, coughing
dead
skin and fibers
Cross
back to a shot of the kid
BMX
bike in midair
backdrop
a hillside
his
black tuffs the envy of all
his
green-eyed companions
Moto-X
Fox shirt torn
like
a battle-worn flag
flapping
gulps of Delta gust
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