To finally arrive—detached everything; a changed disposition skipping in a new coat made of shiny buttons.

Go to work, sleep through the news, fold the lines into an origami boat to float in the bathtub that needs to be scoured before the unwanted company arrives.

Smile and say, we are leaning in a bright direction.

The theory of the factory won’t open the enclosure.

The workers are naming all the broken parts of the massive new machine, its instruction manual in Chinese.

They release the boy who can’t drink the elixir—pressed under a car, performing terrible tricks—breaking windows for home.

How easy the game of hide-and-seek in the attic when no one is there except dirty pigeons that don’t mind the nails spiking straight up to send them running off the roof’s gray, tarred shingles.

Their thick necks of dusted, oily feathers—careening—jerking—on high speed because they no longer care to fly.

Their flattened, dilated golden eyes multiply, following in the smallest room facing the front of the house—where you wait for the too-thin girl with unwashed hair to cross the street, alight the crooked porch steps of the old woman who can’t remember the girl’s mellifluous name.

Pull out your spleen to show the middle child while the pictures of death detach recklessly— shattering the platelet of the sample.

Collision’s blueprints clear Tuesday’s field of glaring sun that doesn’t mean to hurt you—doesn’t mean to disturb you with sharp pebbles.

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