it takes tw(elve) to make a thing go right


I rake the clouds down with my important stick. Take that, you ripcurled sky,
I say look at the fluorescent hand-me-downs. The smile cloud washing itself
against this building. My teo-eyed wag. Say uncle, I let the cries out.

What sniffling and segmented letters lost to the fracture of air with sound
each picture a room and inside each room the instruction kit and instrument.
I mean, in. Press it, the kid of each worker looking down from the floor label.

One fiction in the numbering. One fact for the downward case – when we remove
what we’ve returned to the toolkit again, it’s no longer the hand that logged
each grip previous to the one begun now. All shredding started at the front

of the alphabet is similar, in that it’s shredding and under the names
for things we dine. Each toe numbs the paper. The word test repeated
from a square to make hypnosis enter the fists of the windrolling

washers who will their lives to string and bounce down the face
of buildings with their hands a crush of suds and rubber noises.
Confetti starts from hearing. We watch the man-made rain. 


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