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When there is no snow to melt in spring

I will be as incorporeal as the precipitation that has failed to fall

spread out on the floor of my recollections and desires

enacting all versions of myself simultaneously

I’ve managed to flip time on its infinite side

The temporal does not run not on the temporals terms

but I am trying to meet it on them

There is a tarp mangled around branches in Illinois,

the sculpture Morris never made

There is a green Mercury Sable driving down Route 93

in Nevada in November of 15’

There is a man smoking a cigarette on a balcony in Arkansas

leaning against a wall but wishing to crumple into himself

in an attempt to take up the smallest amount of space possible

Mother nature is the paragon of a sculptress

I know she will do with these things as she sees fit

There are abandoned buildings in Santa Rosa, NM

when it’s 67 degrees and sunny

There is a breeze in the desert that blows old dust over old dust,

just like everywhere else

There are overturned semis in Nebraska and Texas

in the snow and late at night

There is equidistant trash in the grass just outside of the Phillips 66

where dogs run to spite John Divola

She has already begun


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