Brings out they curiosity cabinet
and place yrself in it. Out from they middle

of junkyard, language hast buck. it shrug off
yr little pleas to make small room for itself,

like a cassette (and nots they music; they baby coffin, cassette).

Character become bond become glass—
everything riles, everything starts to something else,

so now we every sorts of new.

What we you, we see can't be believed. Yr mother
fixing yr one eyed doll by breaking the other eye

(whatever suit they socket). We hast need

for the sort of asymmetry that makes some sense
out of our loss, where they words spark red
and they pages turn to smoke.

So much story play at conclusion; like loss could last

too long. It is time to call home.