I am pulling
the gold strip around my love's
Marlboro pack. I am tearing
a clean line
through his cellophane. I
am going
around corners. Separating
from itself. Fresh-
ness broken. Strip thrown
and top pulled off and thrown
out of mind. Not
blocking the pattern of the tablecloth
where it is. Now
he will have to smoke these. Call
it a thing that is
there and not there. Folded and glued
nothing that has to be thrown away.
Shaped,
electric, with an attraction
to fingers. Not
all there. Not there.
Box
on a primitive wing. Transparent
fold catching light. Thorned
wreath or a row of
curved teeth, call it
the winged reptile, its bones, its
halo head and beak. To
view the machine
with an instrument: to box
in its daggered
feathers and hinged legs. Not
architecture or nature but
a thing that could
have flown or drawn blood.
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