The sharp tick-tock of line after line
destroys me sometimes.
To each you give a thought,
here and going, going and gone,
gone and going. Before hereafter
and gone. Scenes are things
just like elves. I said just like
Elvis.
Elvis Presley danced in his own mirror.
A boy gazing
at himself dancing.
Don’t you?
(a portion
of the proceeds
will be offered to the estate of)
The stark multiplicity of speech upon speech
invents me and scenes.
Sigmund Freud heard his dreams on phonograph,
and after handled them softly, touching only edge.
A man working
at himself stealing.
And here I am thinking
about how stubborn lines are
in time.
