I’m left holding the door,
the epitome walks through
an invisible myself who acknowledges
some vestige or prosthesis
but generally materializes
in a vacant air and heads for the elevator,
rising levels of abstraction
leave the head
empty, eyes gritty with undisclosed
amnesia once defended against
by memorization, Polonius’s
speech to his son performed
in the old folks home
or those lines in which mercy
becomes redundant,
you see, he pauses in the slow lane
and addresses rapt thousands
by the light change,
and we do, the king is in his counting
house measuring power,
I’m still holding the door, still
born in the grid, it’s getting expensive
to live in a world of light,
a replicant answers the call to Chaucer
and the students wrap themselves
around an eraser,
these are thoughts that occur in stress,
one for the street
and one the street displaces
count your blessings
empty porter,
vacant weather.
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