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