Stranger, your Chucks turned up at the toes,
I want you to Google me and find nothing
because once over anything, a person needs
someone who doesn’t leave cabinet doors
hanging open overhead;
a rowboat, a tin-can
telephone, a still animal (context: a sea of extracts).
You: Compose sad tweets about censorship.
Me: Drive parallel to the train, keeping within
the boundaries of its length.
This performance will be a gift, its gardens
interior (context: domestic).
Its program notes will be the construction signs, the dramaturge
unknown, or maybe a 0s+1s machine
(context: Alphaville).
Our passage will be at night, after the football
+ bat traffic is reabsorbed by the residences,
the orange bulbs burning vigilantly + the traffic cones
our ushers, lights down, lights up, another place.