the computer plays cycles of
noise rolling in
mountains rushing over the shadow
hand held over houses,
water folds back,
sound’s interactive touch
intersection of context, a hand
collapses back, reverse waves

heart beating

through time stains erase
wet rocks over built-seas
sky scraped clouds
grow in a vermilion bucket,

between ear and the computer speaker
where they insert
films about places something else
takes their place, a

settling-in of
earthly gravity
undertow of inhalation
pulling-us-down-through-the-ears a

car pretending to be
confessions of a tree talking to itself about fantasizing plastic,
or the crash, a twitch, elastic cymbals, liquid drums
imitating this room
reaching for the mountainbeds with elongated wooden-toes

noise always with its shred
communicable mornings
sliding between your lips,
undressing my mouth
from speaking anything further,


in its naked state, finally revealed
the absence of what story’s were designed to pass along,
the actual emptiness of being


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