Is Anyone Anonymous?

I’m a real girl an illusory girl  
hot at the microphone  

I collapse after timetables  
the moon changes its hat  
not everything’s noble  

There’s a rhythm  
at the window like hunger  
as if there’s noise inside the future  
an ancient tone  
a crotchet of silence  

My clothes avoid surveillance 
I’m incongruent  
and between algorithms  

I pick a page in a book  
read the signs  
arise from there  
into the medicated air  
full of space and small affinities 

Rain drops tunes of the season 
into the machine of early light 
its tenderness more casual 
than any dream of talking to 
fishes has-beens or escapees 
on the suburb’s horizon 
where people drop their shoes  

And there are still tongues 
like comebacks or an aria 
that proceeds slowly  
out of a piano  
in a front room