the dishwasher makes a cry
but no one attends to it
except the fingers who
are responsible for these cloud
formations of affirmational-mirrors, not
just for anyone, but as a
telepathy-raining through sunny-day
potentialities legitimating
factor of how a lemon suddenly squeezes
its thin nostril hairs passed the opening
of the door as it whittles a narrow
passage to whisper, thank you
to the mailman, and makes a fuss
of a noise among the radio static and
that pop-fuzz of plastic infused
left traffic-lane, pounding our skulls with
iconographic brain-swallows for things to
laugh at, as the condensation of a
multitude of windows suddenly slams in and
provides a handshake where hugs are also
welcomed, and yet
none of it is any of it, and we’ll never know
what it was, or what we missed, all
details slide off the greaser
down the drain of the unknown canyon walls un-
attending to their breather-space, we
develop fingers and find in the synaptic-discharge-
glove-compartment a
simple yet mighty trash bag, we
can always come back to again and again, here
this is where we came from, here,
this is what new eyes—find themselves inhabit as
they sudden-ly, as you are sudden-ly
confronted with what was not
until this very moment

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