Winter 2011

Line of Reality

for Greg Purcell

Fate is just an ocean, right.
Humans left do anything. It seems

like somewhere sleepy. Certainly the bed sheet left a screen
for a start; like putting up your right hand

to make right a rabbit heart or a lying man.
Shadows before every left thing are huge.

And dark folds, a material left to hide inside, to become bold.
My time as pocket knife is coming to a close.

It’s not all right dying. Proceeding
from my left hand: paper leaves,

a paper doll cut, a tension left desire.
Is it right? Lighting up a vain

mirror, right, mirror, sanity left. Period.
I had to learn to lose my money, to gain trust, to brain disfavor,

to lead the right cheer, not to be unseemly.
I keep my left pant leg on. Random Fashion

and take some trust from a paper dollar nation.
Maybe when I left them I was not right

but a human has a right to try her human feeling
then take the ship that’s left and steer it through its reeling.



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"Fantasmagorie" by Emile Cohl, 1908