to the image heap, we'll retrieve our blocked-out memories, gleefully
at the dumping ground, another scout has found the thoughts once lost
and longing for ownership, closure, but now the sounds of resurrection
wicker bust of charm again, winter bundling hood strings, one mitten
on, one gone missing, the harm of icicle drops right there up above you
only a lonely pond below sea level, tricycle rust, bent wheel, dead child
the blood of Baltimore on a pike looking west to infrared parsimony
guts and glory-hole gore, quaking, quailing, opened up to trouble you
for the dogma, the Escarpment Dogon, and file cabinets of Manet teeth
and drop-cloth comas for basement naps beneath the fumes unmasked
the smog and impasse of a ranch hand's murder in Harlow, suffocated
no memories, no memes, no mystery to knowing, only in when to show
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