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Places we're Not Supposed to Go

life is full of holes and I think I've found a new one:

imagine you're sitting on the tip edge of a crane, legs dangling, swirling, singing

most everything that surrounds you is inky grey

life scenes play out far away below--

there's so much air

your knees are wet


then at first one shoe slips off, falls, lands, lightly tapping,

and an out-of-nowhere bird calls closer:

"this place is not yours!"

talons on the adjacent rod--/plunge/--

and snap out of it on a bus on a bridge in the middle of the fog,

road in front of you and behind you and a great breathing on either side,

shadow seagulls tumble in the haze:

imagine this was forever

this sound, that rumble, these people--

imagine days and mornings and nights and meals and

long-spaced rest stops to stretch your legs

on the never-ending bridge,

those faces and the intimacy of passengers

in the middle of the fog,

there's a whiteness growing in the middle of your mind:

it's the color of cereal milk

after you've eaten the cereal--

breathe in, "so", and out, "hahm"

you're sitting on a stool in the middle of a large, flat roof on a cloudy winter day:

there's curry in a tupperware, but you're not very hungry.

you've been here before, you think, as you walk

past an old shoe,

and through bird poop

shaped like marks on the ceiling of your apartment

you're lying in bed, staring at marks

on the ceiling of your apartment.

your friends are downstairs, outside, at work,

lined up one after another on a telephone line--





there are places we are told not to go,

places we're told aren't for our limbs or heads,

places outside of productive, of normal,

places we're not to stay in or see,

alone places,

unintentional places,

unsatisfied places,

useless and/or unsuccessful places,

but your bird body finds its way

down a slightly loping hill,

your wings still work, no hole can hold you.

these are places worth seeing, worth being--

places to stay, to watch, to fly from and land.

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