Our Heigthening City

Where multiplicity forgoes general force, innocuously duplicated:
A can of soup, a can of soup, a can of soup, then Marilyn.

If it’s all the same we’ll just use tinfoil—tinfoil telephone,
tinfoil table, tinfoil tree tops. Tinfoil to the moon.

Let tonight’s body lay straight and still,
in either exhibition or excavation. Each ending,

both vacuous and expired but not because of want. Ever widening
revolutions turning toward the sun, which is the will of the body.

Marilyn in red. Marilyn in blue. Marilyn for miles, whose image
creates a feeling of fullness, the comfort of recognition. The cadence

of human movement creating windows on top of windows on top of windows
and ushering away what cannot be duplicated, gathering all that can be

touched and most of what cannot. Sun-stroked buildings in the rapid
vacuum of their projections. Packed like people

who have no control over the changing of tracks, or the pause
in the darkness which makes all these choices easy to forget.

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