Here, five minutes lapses lines
defined by geographers and architects,
power poles cross with telephone
wires and the every night microphone
records words, thoughts so not mine I
feel a kinship to Deep Throat. What
I mean to say is smeared make-up
and an antique shop of a home lead
you to read “tired” across a face
holding four syllables more, but
what can stand beyond mistranslation
with these many cords cut?

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