The best part of waking up is folgers in your cup – Shakespeare

I know this one, the light.
I mean, I was there and you.
I mean, the lower level is hell
and a stage, or the foot of
a crane – to let the papers
toughen up, to touch the water
each neck stippled with words
and how. This model
world we’re recreating
microphones in our pockets
and the ability to sing
even with keys that will clot
up our lunch, our lungs. I mean
I sat below the earth and was spun
into a thread and you
watched the clouds, them turning
into states and animals
eventually. And we were the lines
forgetting, we blinked
and limped – the crowd our current
beliefs only able to stand
and applaud briefly
as the sun encroached
and logged its sourest hours

into the seats – dimming

their fabric by shades and the clapping
became dimmer, too from a fader
controlled at the sound deck
by a man who knew all the lines
we were swallowed by what pose
the sun took. I mean, we were
still, right. I mean you took
my arm like a ladder and climbed
into the rafters and touched
the hot glass before it cracked
and color came down pouring
and pouting your name on
the shards, the stage a confused
block of wood.



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