Monday, February 24, 2014

DUMBEST LITTLE DUCHAMP DOODLE

In my drafty
dreams—the silent
pale and soft-
cornered 

nude—descending 

just as I—five a.m. 
half-
sleeping—trudge roughly upward 

toward—the goal
of a certain 
off-white porcelain 
bowl at the top—suddenly

stops—all of her stylized 
declining

motion 
a moment

in order
to raise up—a trifle 
more realistically  

her fair and her 
alabaster 
hand in the dark to

high-five 
me—there on my cold laminate stairs.

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