They hang mirrors on the walls, one upon another,
turn on all the TV sets they can, try to repeat
the words after the singers and talking heads from
the guts of a blue sun, follow the dislocations
of the dust up to the very end of disguise,
tap at what they call random keys and look for
people with the names that show up on the screen.
Sooner or later lost gloves, fallen hair, expired
credit cards are going to bury them with the rest of the world.


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