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The hum of
this fan
smoothes me.
Its blades
shred air in a
circular adventure.
The cloud of flies
is captured
in glass.
Their talk is
all electric
window jazz.
What this after-
noon does is
burn sweat.
It butters
my skin like glue
on the bed.
There is a
policeman
in the closet,
his greasy eyes
a drowning soup.
There is a savior
in the crack under
the door.
His pounding
unzips my face.
I crouch
stareblind
at the ceiling.
My pistols, I know
will kill the time
with impatience.
Whispers and
echoes aside,
I thump
for a standing blue vein.
While
in the corner
the first wisps
of storm brew.
And I move slow
like a glacier
in the wind
of my room.
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