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10.
Later, in April morning light
the contrary intensities
of a hotel, a collapsed transit,
rusted coils and snow
seem as oblique as thought
the gravelly hours of a film.
I went through there.
I have the white piece of paper,
the address. As though this
notification of an appointment
identifies the future,
hold a frame in which I'll walk
up the pale blue broken stairs
strewn with bolts, a Barbie,
butts, and a black rag.
The oiled procession
of unbecoming.
First clothing
freed from its pins.
A body flies
blanketed by smoke.
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