Moving

& the sirens expand down
the avenue & then into the distance
& then to every place my extensions
have yet to reach—the same
thing which wakes me & drives
me to sleep & why it is that I accept
this will be here in the morning
after the excitement of having
something up my sleeve passes.
There are phone calls without faces
& making plans that feel redundant.
Nights of creaking by are over,
here it is mostly quiet except
for someone’s car stereo a few doors
down, mostly the sidewalks
look the same & and all the faces
of buildings are signed. Now
just a repetitive nightly thumping
& once level ground skewed toward
doom without a closet. It’s hard to say
what one would choose between
commodifiable sighs & what is cowering
under the couch. These hard woods
speak nothing of desire, they only
buckle, uncertain of stature & voices.
Framework is the easy part, magnetic
wanderings only have so many options
& continually let negotiation slide
down its side. In fullness this naming eeks
out diversions like my quick miss against
the curb, tapping forward each colorless
instrument before perching at the throat
of my ego, knocking at my teeth to open
the sequestered dilemma which reclines
each time there is a stirring & is spun
among street wires outside your window.

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